A    POET'S 

ANTHOLOGY   OF 

POEMS 


BY 

ALFRED    NOYES 


NEW   YORK 
THE    BAKER    &    TAYLOR    COMPANY 

LONDON 

ANDREW    MELROSE 
1911 


DEDICATED 
TO 

MY   FATHER 


2045237 


PREFACE 


"/"T~NHE  future  of  poetry  is  immense,  because 
J-  in  poetry,  where  it  is  worthy  of  its  high 
destinies,  our  race,  as  time  goes  on,  will  find  an 
ever  surer  and  surer  stay."  So  wrote  Matthew 
Arnold  in  1880,  and  at  the  present  moment  it 
may  be  useful  to  survey  anew  his  reasons  for 
that  utterance.  They  were  the  subject  of  much 
controversy  in  his  own  lifetime,  but  at  the  present 
day  the  most  fiercely  debated  of  his  premisses  is 
established  as  almost  a  platitude.  "  There  is  not 
a  creed  which  is  not  shaken,  not  an  accredited 
dogma  which  is  not  shown  to  be  questionable, 
not  a  received  tradition  which  does  not  threaten 
to  dissolve.  Our  religion  has  materialised  itself 
in  the  fact ;  it  has  attached  its  emotion  to  the 
fact,  and  now  the  fact  is  failing  it.  But  for 
poetry  the  idea  is  everything ;  the  rest  is  a  world 
vii 


of  illusion,  of  divine  illusion.  Poetry  attaches  its 
emotion  to  the  idea  ;  the  idea  i.v  the  fact.  The 
strongest  part  of  our  religion  to-day  is  its 
unconscious  poetry." 

These  words  deserve  the  attention  which  their 
author  evidently  (for  he  repeats  them  elsewhere) 
desired  them  to  have.  They  deserve  it  because 
they  embody  a  response  to  a  question  which 
has  never  been  directly  answered,  and  perhaps 
never  will  be  answered  in  the  fixed  form  of  a 
definition,  the  old  question — What  is  poetry  ? 

Is  it  possible  to  extort  its  secret?  There  has 
been  much  illogical  wrestling  with  the  Angel  of 
poetry,  whose  harmony  and  reason  are  so  absolute 
that  our  intellectual  limbs  have  hitherto  been 
writhen  in  that  unequal  contest  at  one  touch  of 
the  celestial  finger ;  but  the  progress  of  the  last 
generation  or  two  has  added  greatly  to  our  re- 
sources. We  know  better,  at  any  rate,  than  to 
attempt  to  grapple  with  him  at  close  quarters. 
\\V  have  begun  to  ask  whether  we  may  not 
range  ourselves  on  his  side,  whether  some  com- 
munion may  not  be  possible.  Religion,  certainly, 
finding  him  her  strongest  friend,  desires  this. 
But  we  may  go  further  to-day  than  Matthew 
Arnold  could  foresee.  It  is  not  only  the  wrest- 
ling creeds  and  dogmas  whose  intellectual  limbs 
viii 


have  been  writhen  by  a  touch  of  the  Angel's 
finger.  We  may  turn  on  Science  itself  with  its 
own  ancient  question  and  cry,  "  Pilate,  what  is 
truth  ? "  At  the  present  moment  there  is  not 
a  creed  of  ethics  which  is  not  shaken,  not  an 
accredited  dogma  of  rationalism  which  is  not 
shown  to  be  questionable,  not  a  received  tradition 
of  materialism  which  does  not  threaten  to  dis- 
solve. It  is  not  that  science  and  philosophy 
have  followed  the  wrong  path.  Amid  their  own 
tribulations  and  martyrdoms  they  have  held 
inexorably  to  the  truth  so  far  as  they  could  see 
it ;  but  their  glimpses  of  truth  are  leading  them 
to  a  conclusion  that  they  did  not  foresee.  They 
placed  their  faith  in  the  fact,  as  we  may  say,  and 
now  the  fact  is  failing  them.  Their  matter,  their 
molecules,  their  first  principles  are  literally 
opening  before  them  infinite  gates  into — what 
shall  we  say  ?  Wherever  they  thought  they  had 
a  fundamental  fact,  a  basis  for  their  systems  of 
thought,  they  have  only — on  every  side — an 
immeasurable  and  incomprehensible  miracle.  On 
every  side,  more  silently,  perhaps,  than  in 
temples  made  with  hands,  but  not  less  reverently, 
all  true  men  of  science  are  bowing  the  head. 
The  old  kind  of  materialistic  science  has  no 
meaning  now,  except  in  the  fuddled  brains  pro- 
ix 


duccd  by  half-knowledge  and  cheap  education. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  "  atheism  "  except  on 
the  tubs  of  Hyde  Park,  and  even  there  it  is  only 
a  piteous  cry  for  the  light.  The  strongest  part  of 
our  philosophy  to-day  is  its  unconscious  poetry ! 

This  statement  does  not  detract  from  the  work 

.» 

of  Darwin  any  more  than  it  detracts  from  the 
work  of  Carlyle.  Both — to  take  an  old  metaphor 
— were  ascending  the  same  sacred  mountain, 
though  from  different  sides,  and  they  meet  on 
the  summit.  How  many  heart-burnings  and 
tragic  dilemmas  would  have  been  avoided  when  the 
drawing-rooms  of  the  Victorian  era  were  so  amaz- 
ingly fluttered  by  the  publication  of  The  Descent  of 
Man,  if  only  the  book  itself  had  been  read  and 
mastered  by  those  who  feared  its  "  tendency." 
How  much  more  would  have  been  avoided,  what  a 
sure  stay  would  have  been  found,  had  the  tremblers 
been  well  acquainted  with  their  own  poetry,  to 
which  the  chief  ideas  in  Darwin's  theories  had  in 
many  of  their  aspects  long  been  familiar.  Half- 
knowledge  is  ever  the  enemy.  Poetry  has  ever 
exalted  truth  to  heaven,  and  truth  has  ever 
accepted  the  invitation.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a 
paragraph  from  The  Descent  of  Man — a  paragraph 
that  may  seem  almost  startling  in  its  simplicity, 
amid  the  blaze  of  modern  pyrotechnics. 


"  I  am  aware,"  wrote  Darwin,  "  that  some  of 
the  conclusions  arrived  at  in  this  work  will  be 
denounced  by  some  as  highly  irreligious  ;  but  he 
who  denounces  them  is  bound  to  show  why  it  is 
more  irreligious  to  explain  the  origin  of  man  as  a 
distinct  species  by  descent  from  some  lower  form, 
through  the  laws  of  variation  and  natural  selec- 
tion, than  to  explain  the  birth  of  the  individual 
through  the  laws  of  ordinary  reproduction.  The 
birth  both  of  the  species  and  of  the  individual  are 
equally  parts  of  that  grand  sequence  of  events, 
which  our  minds  refuse  to  accept  as  the  result  of 
blind  chance.  The  understanding  revolts  at  such 
a  conclusion." 

The  understanding  revolts !  In  that  short, 
sharp  summary  of  the  attitude  of  Darwin  towards 
the  " blind  chance"  systems  of  the  sciolists  we 
have  the  testimony  of  the  world's  greatest 
materialistic  man  of  science,  whose  powers  were 
devoted  almost  entirely  to  what  he  could  touch 
or  handle  or  see  on  this  planet  itself,  and  whose 
intellect  worked  with  a  vast  machine-like  accuracy 
over  the  whole  field — necessarily  limited — of  its 
operations. 

The  understanding  revolts  from  doubt  of  what 
must  be  the  basis  of  every  sane  intellect,  a  condi- 
tion of  all  thought,  namely,  an  unhesitating  accept- 
xi 


ance  of  the  fundamental  order  and  harmony  of 
the  universe,  an  acceptance  as  implicit  as  our 
much  less  logical  certainty  that  the  sun  will  rise 
to-morrow.  That  basis  of  the  universe  in  an 
ultimate  harmony  is  the  first  postulate  and  axiom 
of  all  thought,  all  science,  all  art.  Without  it, 
there  is  nothing  left  to  us  that  has  the  slightest 
meaning.  The  sciolist  who  denies  a  positive 
ultimate  meaning  to  the  universe  is  in  a  very 
ridiculous  position  indeed  if  from  such  a  quagmire 
he  presents  us  with  his  baseless  philosophy. 
He  can  have  not  the  slightest  justification  for 
stringing  a  single  sentence  together.  He  has 
pulverised  the  foundations  of  all  logic,  and  liis 
words  can  have  no  more  logical,  orderly,  or 
harmonious  connection  than  the  babble  of  an 
idiot  smitten  with  aphasia. 

We  are  on  firm  enough  ground  here,  in  the  last 
entrenchment,  to  find,  if  we  do  not  already  possess, 
the  courage  of  our  opinions,  although  there  are 
many  'writers  of  distinction,"  some  of  them  with 
a  "  European  reputation,"  who  solemnly  discuss 
whether  our  world  be  not "  an  accident."  1 1  would 
be  cruel  to  analyse  the  problems  they  raise  with 
too  keen  a  scrutiny,  cruel  to  peruse  too  closely  the 
meanings  based  on  meaninglessness,  and  spun  out 
of  nothingness  by  the  baseless  brain  of  an  Accident 
xii 


from  Nowhere.  But  solemn  books  are  annually 
produced  on  this  basis  by  "  writers  of  distinction," 
and  those  who  might  are  usually  unwilling  to 
break  their  silence  merely  to  re-affirm  the 
elementary  principles  of  all  thought.  One  result 
is  that  many  perplexed  gropers  after  truth  are 
over-clouded  by  pessimistic  doubts  that  certainly 
blind  them  to  the  real  splendour  of  great  art. 
The  little  negations  of  the  Patchouli  poets  mean 
more  to  them  than  the  flaming  heavens  of  Milton. 
An  epigram  at  the  expense  of  his  noble  simplicity 
means  more  than  all  the  sublime  poetry  of 
Wordsworth.  For  these,  the  secret  of  great 
poetry  would  almost  seem  to  have  been  forgotten. 
Yet,  even  here,  there  are  signs  of  the  truth  of 
Matthew  Arnold's  prophecy,  in  the  popularity  of 
that  translation  of  a  Persian  poet  by  Fitzgerald, 
a  glorious  poem,  which  (while  apparently  pander- 
ing to  the  melancholy  satisfaction  of  their 
agnostic,  and  literally  know-nothing,  philosophy) 
is  by  virtue  of  its  poetry  a  more  celestial  and 
positive  pandar  than  they  know.  "  He  knows 
about  it  all,  He  knows,  He  knows  !  " 

What,  then,  is  this  secret  of  great  poetry — we 

could  say  all  great  art,  but  we  are  concerned  here 

with  only  one  form  of  it — in  which  so  clear  and 

precise  a  critic  as  Matthew  Arnold  could  affirm 

xiii 


that  our  race  will  come  to  find  an  ever  surer  and 
surer  stay  ?  It  is  simply  this — that  all  great 
poetry,  all  great  art,  brings  us  into  touch,  into 
communion  with  that  harmony  which  is  the  IKIMS 
of  the  universe,  the  harmony  in  which  all  our 
discords  are  resolved.  All  great  art  does  this, 
and  this  is  the  one  test  of  its  greatness.  It  does 
not  follow  that  great  art  must  be  didactic  or 
philosophical,  any  more  than  that  there  must  be 
a  definite  moral  to  every  great  story.  But  all 
»Tf.it  art  >ho\\s  the  relation  between  its  subject 
and  the  Eternal  harmonies.  A  broken  boot  or 
an  old  tree-stump  will  serve  as  a  subject  for  great 
art,  if  the  artist  can  hold  them  up  against  the 
light  of  Eternity.  Turner's  picture  of  the 
"  Fighting  Temeraire  towed  to  her  last  resting- 
place  "  is  a  popular  but  perfect  example  of  great 
art,  and  the  difference  between  that  picture  and 
the  majority  of  merely  pleasant  sea-pictures  is 
simply  in  the  perfection  of  the  relation  established 
between  the  temporal  details  and  the  light  of 
Eternity. 

This  relation  can  be  established  in  a  thousand 
ways  as  the  spirit  moves  the  artist.  Tragedy 
is  not  only  a  purging  of  the  soul,  it  is  a 
sloughing  off  of  the  temporal  for  the  Eternal,  and 
that  is  why  in  its  greatness  it  is  sublime.  There 
xiv 


is  no  sublimity  in  meaningless  annihilation,  the 
death  of  an  insubstantial  toad  under  a  nonsensical 
harrow ;  but  there  is  sublimity  in  Hamlet's  dying 
cry  to  his  friend  who  would  fain  follow  him — 

"  Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile," 

the  only  commentary  upon  which  is — "  God  so 
loved  the  world."  In  tragedy  it  is  obvious  that 
the  things  of  Eternity  are  affirmed  or  postulated 
only  by  an  inspired  denial  of  the  merely  temporal. 
But  mere  denial,  mere  negation,  can  never  be 
great  art.  When  Macbeth  cries,  "  Out,  out,  brief 
candle !  "  he  is  not  coldly  asserting  as  a  scientific 
fact  that  man's  life  is  brief  and  worthless.  His 
words  may  superficially  support  that  conclusion ; 
but  that  is  not  the  whole  of  their  import  or 
content.  The  words  have  an  emotional  side 
ciying  out  in  anguish  against  that  conclusion. 
Lhey  have  that  strange,  deep,  harmonious  import 
of  the  greatest  poetry,  which  is  only  vouchsafed 
to  us  when  (as  our  fathers  believed  might  happen 
to  a  man  praying)  some  mysterious  sluices  are 
opened  between  the  soul  of  man  and  the  Infinite, 
and  the  Deep  comes  flooding  in.  Many  genera- 
tions of  our  fathers  have  understood  this  seeming 
paradox  that  the  words  proclaiming  all  things 
to  be  vanity,  over  and  above  that  proclamation, 
xv 


may  postulate  a  passionate  gospel.  The  cry  of 
Macbeth  has  something  of  the  same  emotional 
content  as  the  book  of  Ecclesiastes — and  it  goes 
to  swell  the  terrible  cry  of  Calvary,  "Why  hast 
thou  forsaken  me  :  " 

This  book  contains  some  of  the  greatest  lyrical 
poetry  in  the  English  language,  arranged  with  a 
view  to  the    elucidation    of    the    great    positive 
values  which    all    great    art    contains.     Such    an 
arrangement  is  necessarily  arbitrary,  divisions  will 
over-lap,    and    those    who    look    for   a    definite 
philosophy  will  find  statements  as  varied  as  those 
of  Ecclesiastes  and    the  Sermon  on    the  Mount. 
But  taking  their  deeper  values,  and  allowing  each 
poem  to  be  elucidated  by  its  neighbours,  accord- 
ing to  the  plan  of  the  book,  there  may  be  a  few 
readers  who  will  find  in  the  body  of  this  volume 
something    of   what    Matthew   Arnold    promised 
them,  and  find  it  more  easily  than  in  the  usual  kind 
of  anthology.     Three  poems  which  have  a  special 
appeal  to  our  own  times   are  Matthew  Arnold's 
"  Morality,"  Tennyson's  "  Wages,"  and  the  "  Last 
Lines"  of  Emily  Bronte.  They  form  something  like 
an  irreducible  minimum  of  faith  and  hope,  on  which 
the  grander  fabric  of  poems  like  "  Abt  Vogler  "  can 
find  something  of  a   foundation ;    an  irreducible 
minimum  on  which  the  mind  can  still  find  foothold, 
xvi 


through  its  darkest  and  most  disastrous  hours. 
They  afford  this  foothold  by  the  definite  facts  they 
give  us,  quite  apart  from  the  great  gifts  they 
convey  to  us  by  the  power  and  beauty  of  their 
art.  But  this  need  not  be  insisted  upon,  as  we  are 
here  more  concerned  with  the  positive  values  of 
art  itself,  and  the  way  in  which  great  poetry, 
as  an  art,  brings  us  into  communion  with  the 
Eternal  Harmonies.  Metre  and  rhythm  (and 
their  corresponding  principles  of  harmony  in 
other  arts)  have  no  small  part  to  play  in  this, 
though  they  are  more  a  consequence  than  a  cause 
in  all  the  greatest  work.  The  music  of  intel- 
lectual exaltation,  linking  all  things  near  and  far, 
has  its  positive  source  in  that  eternal  fount  of 
harmony  from  which  this  great  metrical  cosmos, 
these  pulsing  hearts  and  swinging  tides  and 
wheeling  stars,  proceed.  All  these  rhythms  and 
cadences  and  harmonies  of  art  carry  an  affirmation 
with  them.  They  are  constructive  even  when 
superficially  they  seem  to  deny  our  own  limited 
creeds.  In  a  word,  they  are  literally  poetry. 
Swinburne,  denying  one  idea  of  God  in  the  hymn 
to  Proserpine,  vehemently  postulates  another  idea 
of  God  ;  and,  denying  himself  the  more  familiar 
outlets  for  religious  feeling,  re-affirms  and  worships 
the  Omnipotent  and  Eternal  in  his  Odes  to  Victor 
b 


Hugo.  It  is  a  mistake  to  think  that  the  terms 
of  the  title  of  a  poem  usually  contain  all  that  the 
poem  itself  conveys.  These  Odes  to  Victor  Hugo, 
for  instance,  are,  in  the  most  complete  sense,  acts 
of  idolisation.  Swinburne,  in  other  words,  in- 
sisted on  having  his  own  ritual.  He  may  have 
been  wrong  in  this ;  but  there  is  no  mistaking 
the  "one"  ultimate  Throne  before  which  he 
swings  this  golden  censer,  the  One  that  remains 
while  the  many  change  and  pass : — 

"  All  crowns  before  this  crown 

Triumphantly  bow  down 
For  pride  that  one  more  great  than  all  draws  nigh  : 

All  souls  applaud,  all  hearts  acclaim, 
One    heart   benign,    one  soul   supreme,    one    conquering 
name." 

In  the  same  way,  point  by  point  and  principle 
by  principle,  in  one  poem  or  another,  through  his 
own  form  of  ritual,  this  so-called  anti-Christian 
re-aHirms  practically  every  emotion,  and,  more 
than  that,  every  dogma  of  Christianity.  He  may 
write  hymns  to  that  one  limited  power  in  the 
universe — Aphrodite ;  but  he  cannot  shut  his 
eyes  to  the  presence  of  other  and  higher  powers. 
It  is  not  to  Aphrodite  that  the  bursting  breast  of 
cancer  must  bring  its  terrible  passion  ;  and,  when 
this  "anti-Christian  "  is  confronted  by  the  terrible 
xviii 


realities  of  suffering  on  our  earth,  to  what 
heavenly  symbol  does  he  turn,  as  the  highest 
that  the  human  intellect  has  evoked  ? — 

' '  O  sacred  head,  O  desecrate, 

O  labour-wounded  feet  and  hands, 
O  blood  poured  forth  in  pledge  to  fate 

Of  nameless  lives  in  divers  lands, 
O  slain  and  spent  and  sacrificed 
People,  the  grey-grown  speechless  Christ ! " 

Art — it  can  never  be  repeated  too  often — has 
its  own  rituals ;  and  the  content  of  a  work  of  art 
is  not  to  be  apprehended  in  the  same  way  as  that 
of  a  text-book  of  philosophy  or  science.  The 
poet  begins,  as  it  were,  from  the  centre  of  things, 
while  the  philosopher  works  from  the  outer  cir- 
cumference along  his  particular  radius  towards 
the  centre  where  all  philosophies  and  sciences 
will  one  day  meet.  The  poet's  mind,  looking 
outward  from  that  central  security,  sees  the  whole 
world  co-ordinated  and  linked  in  harmony,  sees 
that  you  cannot  pluck  a  flower  "  without  troubling 
of  a  star."  The  man  of  science  dealing  with 
those  details  would  be  concerned  with  astronomy, 
or  with  botany  alone ;  and,  though  he  would 
hesitatingly  admit  the  absolute  logical  certaintv 
of  the  connection  between  the  two  sciences,  he 
knows  that  it  has  little  or  no  practical  value  along 
xix 


his  particular  radius  or  immediate  line  of  work. 
Briefly,  the  world  appears  to  the  poet,  in  his  in- 
spired moments,  at  any  rate,  as  something  like'  a 
vast  piece  of  music,  wherein  each  note  has  its  use 
and  is  necessary  to  all  the  others  ;  and  wherein 
even  the  discords  have  a  value  in  some  resultant 
harmony,  and  are  introduced,  let  us  say,  as 
Beethoven  will  deliberately  introduce  them  for  a 
similar  purpose  in  his  most  perfect  work.  This  is 
not  an  empty  figure.  It  has  its  foundations,  at 
any  rate,  in  the  foundations  of  logic  itself.  Every 
science  and  every  branch  of  science  is  working 
towards  the  establishment  of  some  such  view  of 
the  universe.  To  the  poet,  as  we  have  said,  in 
his  central  security,  nothing  is  more  certain  ;  and 
it  is  easy  for  him  to  see  not  only  a  beautiful 
emotion  but  the  plainest  of  logical  conclusions  in 
those  wonderful  lines  of  Blake  : — 

"A  skylark  wounded  on  the  wing 

Doth  make  a  cherub  cease  to  sing  : 
A  robin  redbreast  in  a  cage 
Puts  all  heaven  in  a  rage." 

Now  the  passage   I   quoted  above  from  Darwin 
has  a  continuation.      I   ended  it  with  his  declara- 
tion   that     the    understanding    revolts    from    the 
supposition    that    the    universe    is    governed    by 
xx 


"blind  chance."  Then  comes  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  intellectual  collapses,  one  of  the 
most  tragic  land-slides  of  the  whole  fabric  of  a 
great  man's  mind,  that  has  ever  been  recorded. 
He  has  spoken  of  "  that  grand  sequence  of  events, 
which  our  minds  refuse  to  accept  as  the  result  of 
blind  chance.  The  understanding  revolts  at  such 
a  conclusion  "—here  he  is  writing,  though  as  a 
scientist,  yet  with  the  large  grasp  of  the  great 
Greek  dramatists,  of  Shakespeare  and  of 
Beethoven — then  suddenly  he  narrows  himself 
to  his  little  radius  of  work  and  sinks  to  the  earth 
completely  by  adding,  "  whether  or  not  we  are 
able  to  believe  that  every  slight  variation  of  structure, 
— the  union  of  each  pair  in  marriage,  the  dissemina- 
tion of  each  seed — and  other  such  ere?ils,  have  all 
been  ordained  for  some  special  purpose." 

In  other  words,  his  untrained  imagination  re- 
volts from  accepting  the  conclusions  to  which  his 
trained  understanding  has  led  him.  He  is  baffled 
simply  by  the  multiplicity  of  things,  in  the  same 
way  that  some  people  are  afraid  to  believe  in 
human  immortality  owing  to  the  largeness  of  the 
population  of  London.  This  modesty  of  the 
intellect  is  rather  akin  to  that  of  the  lover  who 
wrote  to  his  lady — "  I  love  you  passionately,  in 
my  small  way."  Darwin  could  not  believe — he 
xxi 


shows  it  elsewhere — that  every  blade  of 
every  leaf  of  every  tree,  had  its  exact  part 
in  the  universal  symphony.  Worse  than  that,  he 
could  not  even  believe  that  what  he  said  of  so- 
called  big  things  applied  no  less  precisely  to  so- 
called  small  things.  His  understanding  revolted 
from  supposing  that  the  larger  movements  of  tin- 
stars  were  the  result  of  blind  chance,  but  liis 
imagination  failed  him  when  exactly  the  same 
proposition  presents  itself  with  regard  to  the  dis- 
semination of  seeds.  Yet,  if  our  lives  were  on  a 
much  bigger  scale,  the  stars  themselves  might 
then  seem  to  us  more  insignificant  than  the  seeds 
now  appear  ;  and,  if  human  beings  were  no  bigger 
than  ants,  the  same  Charles  Darwin  would  be 
gravely  announcing  that  his  understanding  re- 
volted from  supposing  that  the  larger  affairs  of 
his  ant-hill  were  the  result  of  blind  chance,  but 
when  it  came  to  a  question  of  the  disposition  of 
ants'  eggs,  he  must  admit  the  possibility  of  a  break, 
a  gap  in  Nature. 

Obviously  it  is  all  or  nothing,  and  to  great  art 
the  answer  is  clear  as  the  sun — "all!"  The 
smallest  break  in  that  eternal  order  and  harmony 
is  an  immeasurable  vacuum  of  the  kind  that  both 
art  and  science  abhor:  for,  if  we  admit  it,  the 
universe  has  no  meaning.  The  poet  demanding 
xxii 


that  not  a  worm  should  be  cloven  in  vain,  or 
crying  with  Blake  that  a  robin  in  a  cage  shakes 
heaven  with  anger,  are  at  one  with  that  profound 
truth — a  sparrow  shall  not  fall  to  the  ground  with- 
out your  Father.  The  blades  of  the  grass  are  all 
numbered.  There  is  no  break  in  the  roll  of  that 
harmony  " whereto  the  worlds  beat  time":  and 
it  is  because  great  art  brings  out,  as  a  conductor 
with  his  wand,  the  harmonies  hidden  by  the  dust 
of  daily  affairs,  that  in  poetry,  as  time  goes  on, 
our  race  will  come  to  find  an  ever  surer  and  surer 
stay. 


xxin 


THE  Editor  desires  to  thank  the  authors  and 
publishers  whose  kindness  has  permitted  the  use 
of  copyright  poems  in  this  book — Mrs.  Meynell 
for  extracts  from  Poems  and  Later  Poems  (published 
by  Mr.  Lane)  ;  Mr  Edmund  Gosse  for  a  poem  from 
An  Autumn  Garden  (Heinemann) ;  Mr.  Wilfred 
Meynell  for  poems  by  Francis  Thompson  (Messrs. 
Burns  &  Gates). 


xxv 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  PAGE 

PREFACE            .            .  .  .  vii 

I.  IN  THE  BEGINNING  i 

II.  THE  SWEET  o'  THE  YEAR  .  .  17 

III.  THE  LOVER      .            .  .  .  -51 

IV.  A  LITTLE  PHILOSOPHY  .  .  .125 
V.  A  JOY  FOR  EVER         ....     149 

VI.  OF  SUCH  AS  THESE     .  .  .  .221 

VII.  THE  BOOK  OF  MEMORY  .  .     307 

VIII.  STEPPING  WESTWARD.  .  .  .     331 

IX.  THE  ETERNAL  SPRING  .  .  .     379 


BOOK   I 
IN    THE    BEGINNING 


Hymn  to  Darkness  o         o         o         o 

HAIL  thou  most  sacred  venerable  thing  ! 
What  Muse  is  worthy  thee  to  sing  ? 
Thee,  from  whose  pregnant  universal  womb 
All  things,  ev'n  Light,  thy  rival,  first  did  come. 
What  dares  he  not  attempt  that  sings  of  thee, 

Thou  first  and  greatest  mystery  ? 
Who  can  the  secrets  of  thy  essence  tell  ? 
Thou,  like  the  light  of  God,  art  inaccessible. 

Before  great  Love  this  monument  did  raise, 

This  ample  theatre  of  praise  ; 
Before  the  folding  circles  of  the  sky 
WTere  tuned  by  Him,  who  is  all  harmony  ; 
Before  the  morning  stars  their  hymn  began, 

Before  the  council  held  for  man, 
Before  the  birth  of  either  time  or  place, 
Thou  reign'st  unquestioned  monarch  in  the  empty 
space. 

3 


Thy  native  lot  thou  didst  to  Light  resign, 

But  still  half  of  the  globe  is  thine. 
Here  with  a  quiet,  but  yet  awful  hand, 
Like  the  best  emperors  thou  dost  command. 
To  thee  the  stars  above  their  brightness  owe, 

And  mortals  their  repose  below  : 
To  thy  protection  fear  and  sorrow  flee, 
And  those  that  weary  are  of  light,  find  rest  in  thee. 
J.  NORRIS  OF  BEMERTON. 


The  Word  to  Chaos 


"  '  A  ^^  t^lou  my  Word,  begotten  Son,  by  thee 
2~\.     This  I  perform  ;  speak  thou,  and  be  it 

done. 

My  overshadowing  Spirit  and  might  writh  thee 
I  send  along  ;  ride  forth,  and  bid  the  deep 
Within  appointed  bounds  be  heaven  and  earth  ; 
Boundless  the  deep,  because  I  AM  who  fill 
Infinitude,  nor  vacuous  the  space  ; 
Though  I  uncircumscribed  myself  retire, 
And  put  not  forth  my  goodness,  which  is  free 
To  act,  or  not,  necessity  and  chance 
Approach  not  me,  and  what  I  will  is  fate.' 


arc  the  acts  of  God,  more  strijt 
4 


Than  time  or  motion,  but  to  human  ears 

Cannot  without  process  of  speech  be  told, 

So  told  as  earthly  notion  can  receive. 

Great  triumph  and  rejoicing  was  in  heaven, 

When  such  was   heard   declared   the  Almighty's 

will; 

Glory  they  sung  to  the  Most  High,  good  will 
To  future  men,  and  in  their  dwellings  peace. 

"So  sang  the  Hierarchies.    Meanwhile  the  Son 
On  his  great  expedition  now  appeared, 
Girt  with  omnipotence,  with  radiance  crowned 
Of  majesty  divine  :  sapience  and  love 
Immense,  and  all  his  Father  in  him  shone. 
About  his  chariot  numberless  were  poured 
Cherub  and  Seraph,  Potentates  and  Thrones, 
And  Virtues,  winged  Spirits,  and  Chariots  winged 
From  the  armoury  of  God,  where  stand  of  old 
Myriads,  between  two  brazen  mountains  lodged 
Against  a  solemn  day,  harnessed  at  hand, 
Celestial  equipage  ;  and  now  came  forth 
Spontaneous,  for  within  them  spirit  lived, 
Attendant  on  their  Lord  :  heav'n  opened  wide 
Her  ever-during  gates,  harmonious  sound 
On  golden  hinges  moving,  to  let  forth 
The  King  of  Glory,  in  his  powerful  Word 
And  Spirit  coming  to  create  new  worlds. 

5 


On   heavenly  ground   they  stood,  and   from   the 

shore 

They  viewed  the  vast  immeasurable  abyss, 
Outrageous  as  a  sea,  dark,  wasteful,  wild, 
Up  from  the  bottom  turned  by  furious  winds 
And  surging  waves,  as  mountains,  to  assault 
Heaven's  height,  and  with  the  centre  mix  the  pole. 

"  '  Silence,  ye  troubled  waves,  and,  thou  Deep, 

peace,' 

Said  then  th'  omnific  Word  ;  'your  discord  end.' 
Nor  stayed  ;  but,  on  the  wings  of  Cherubim 
Uplifted,  in  Paternal  Glory  rode 
Far  into  Chaos  and  the  world  unborn  ; 
For  Chaos  heard  his  voice. 

" '  Let  there  be  light,'  said  God,  and  forthwith 

light 

Ethereal,  first  of  things,  quintessence  pure, 
Sprung  from  the  deep." 

MILTON. 

The  Tiger    <z*         o         <?•         o         <?•         •£> 

^"^IGER,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 
6 


In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder  and  what  art 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
And,  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  and  what  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer  ?  what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

BLAKE. 


A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687  o         *&• 

FROM  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began  : 
When  nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

Arise,  ye  more  than  dead. 

Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 

In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 

And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 
This  universal  frame  began  : 
From  harmony  to  harmony, 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 


The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger, 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries,  hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat. 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whisper' d  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs,  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion, 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 
But  oh  !  what  art  can  teach, 

What  human  voice  can  reach, 
The  sacred  organ's  praise  ? 

Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race  ; 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place, 
Sequacious  of  the  lyre  : 
9 


But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher ; 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appear'd 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

GRAND    CHORUS. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 
The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  bless'd  above  ; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 

DRYDEN. 


Hymn  to  Light       o         o         •&•         o         o 

HAIL,  holy  Light !  offspring  of  heav'n  first- 
bom, 

Or  of  the  Eternal  co-eternal  beam, 
May  I  express  thee  unblamed  ?  since  GOD  is  light, 
And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  eternity,  dwelt  then  in  thee, 
10 


Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate. 

Or  hear'st  thou  rather,  pure  ethereal  stream,, 

Whose  fountain  who  shall  tell  ?  before  the  sun, 

Before  the  heavens  thou  wert,  and  at  the  voice 

Of  God,  as  with  a  mantle,  didst  invest 

The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and  deep, 

Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 

Thee  I  revisit  now  with  bolder  wing, 

Escaped  the  Stygian  pool,  though  long  detained 

In  that  obscure  sojourn,  while  in  my  flight 

Through    utter    and    through    middle    darkness 

borne, 

With  other  notes  than  to  th'  Orphean  lyre,1 
I  sung  of  Chaos  and  eternal  Night, 
Taught  by  the  heav'nly  Muse  to  venture  down 
The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  reascend, 
Though  hard  and  rare :  thee  I  revisit  safe, 
And  feel  thy  sov'reign  vital  lamp ;  but  thou 
Revisit'st  not  these  eyes,  that  roll  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn  ; 
So   thick   a   drop  serene 2    hath   quenched  their 

orbs, 

Or  dim  suffusion  veiled.     Yet  not  the  more 
Cease  I  to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt 

1  Orpheus   wrote   a  hymn   to    Night,    addressing   her   as 
"  Mother  of  gods  and  men." 

2  Milton's  blindness  was  caused  by  gutta  screna. 

II 


Clear  spring,  or  shady  grove,  or  sunny  hill, 
Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song  ;  but  chief 
Thee  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath, 
That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 
Nightly  I  visit ;  nor  sometimes  forget 
Those  other  two  equalled  with  me  in  fate, 
So  were  I  equalled  with  them  in  renown, 
Blind  Thamyris l  and  blind  Maeonides,2 
And  Tiresias  3  and  Phineus,4  prophets  old. 
Then  feed  on  thoughts,  that  voluntary  move 
Harmonious  numbers ;  as  the  wakeful  bird 
Sings  darkling,  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note.     Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return,  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose, 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine  ; 
But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-duriug  dark 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  nature's  works  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 
So  much  the  rather  thou,  celestial  Light, 

1  A  Thracian  who  invented  the  Doric  measures. 

2  Homer.  3  A  blind  Theban  prophet  (Newton). 
4  King  of  Arcadia. 


Shine    inward,   and    the    mind    through   all   her 

powers 

Irradiate,  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 

MILTON. 


The  Morning  Song  of  the  Birds    ^>         <?•         o 

r  I  ""HE  lark  sitting  upon  his  earthy  bed,  just  as 

JL        the  mom 
Appears,   listen    silent,  then  springing  from  the 

waving  cornfield 
Loud   he   leads  the  choir  of  Day :   thrill !  thrill ! 

thrill ! 
Mounting  upon  the  wings  of  light  into  the  great 

expanse, 
Reaching   against   the   lovely    blue   and    shining 

heavenly  skies ; 
His  little  throat  labours  with  inspiration ;  every 

feather 
On  throat  and   breast  and   wings    vibrates  with 

the  effluence  divine, 

All  nature  listens  silent  to  him,  and  the  awful  sun 
Stands  still  upon  the  mountain  looking  on  the  little 

bird 


With  eyes  of  soft  humility,  and  wonder,  love  and 

awe. 
Then  loud  from  their  green  covert  all  the  birds 

begin  their  song : 
The  thrush,  the  linnet,  and  the  gold-finch,  robin 

and  the  wren, 
Awake  the  sun   from    his    sweet  reverie  on   the 

mountain. 

BLAKE. 


The  Morning  Scent  of  the  Flowers          <?•         •&• 

THOU  perceivest  the  flowers  put  forth  their 
precious  odours, 
And  none  can  tell  how  from  so  small  a  centre 

come  such  sweets, 
Forgetting    that    within    that    centre    Eternity 

expands 
Its  ever-during  doors,  that  Og  and  Anak  fiercely 

guard. 
First  ere  the  morning  breaks,  joy  opens  in  the 

flowery  bosoms, 
Joy  even  to  tears,  which  the  sun  rising  dries  :  first 

the  wild  thyme, 
And  meadowsweet,  downy,  and  soft  waving  among 

the  reeds, 


Light  springing  on  the  air  lead  the  sweet  dance  ; 

they  wake 
The  honeysuckle  sleeping  on  the  oak,  the  flaunting 

beauty 
Revels  along  upon  the  wind ;  the  white-thorn  lovely 

May 
Opens  her  many  lovely  eyes ;  listening,  the  rose 

still  sleeps, 
None    dare    to  wake    her ;    soon  she  bursts    her 

crimson-curtained  bed, 
And  comes  forth  in  the  majesty  of  beauty.     Every 

flower, 
The  pink,  the  jessamine,  the  wall-flower  and  the 

carnation, 
The  jonquil ;  the  mild  lily  opens  her  leaves  ;  every 

tree 
And   flower  and   herb  soon   fill  the  air  with  an 

innumerable  dance, 
Yet  all  in  order,  sweet  and  lovely.     Men  are  sick 

with  Love. 

BLAKE. 


BOOK  II 
THE  SWEET  O'  THE  YEAR 


The  Song  of  Enitharmon  *o»         *o         •&•         o 

ARISE,  you  little  glancing  wings,  and    sing 
your  infant  joy, 
Arise  and  drink  your  bliss, 
For  everything  that  lives  is  holy,  for  the  source  of 

life 

Descends  to  be  a  weeping  babe, 
For  the  earth-worm  renews  the  moisture  of  the 
sandy  plain. 

Now  my  left  hand  I  stretch  abroad  even  to  earth 

beneath, 

And  strike  the  terrible  string, 
I  wake  sweet  joy  in  dews  of  sorrow,  and  I  plant 

a  smile 

In  forests  of  affliction, 
And  wake  the  bubbling  springs  of  life  in  regions 

of  dark  death. 

BLAKE. 
19 


To  a  Skylark 


H 


AIL  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  Heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest  . 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 

And    singing    still    dost   soar,  and    soaring    ever 
singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  Heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 

Thou    art    unseen,     but  yet    1   hear    thy    shrill 
delight, 

20 


Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see — we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The   moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  Heaven  is 
overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  Poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 
In  a  palace-tower, 
21 


Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

With   music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows   her 
bower : 


Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  ae'real  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which   screen    it 
from  the  view  : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  those  heavy- 
winged  thieves : 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 

Joyous,    and    clear,   and    fresh,    thy    music   doth 
surpass : 

22 


Teach  us,  Sprite  or  Bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 


Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 

A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden 
want. 


What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 

What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of 
pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be  : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  : 

Thou  lovest — but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 
23 


Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal 
stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not  : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  bom 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 

I   know  not    how  thy  joy   we  ever  should   come 
near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 

Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 
24 


Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 

The  world  should  listen  then — as  I  am  listening 
now. 

SHELLEY. 

The  Rainbow  «o*         o         o         o         <y 

MY  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  I  was  a  child, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
So  let  it  be  when  I  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  : 

The  child  is  father  to  the  man, 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

WORDSWORTH. 

Corinna's  going  a-Maying  o*         o         o         o 

GET  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air : 
25 


Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bowed  toward  the  east 
Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  not  dressed, 
Nay !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ; 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns  :  'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation  to  keep  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To    come  forth,  like    the  spring-time,  fresh  and 

green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair  : 
Fear  not,  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  : 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept. 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night, 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you    come    forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 

praying : 

Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we  go  a- Maying. 
26 


Come,  my  Corinna,  come ;  and  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  timis  a  street,  each  street  a  park 
Made  green,  and  trimmed  with  trees  :  see 

how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or   branch ;  each    porch,    each   door,    ere 

this, 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove, 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't  ? 
Come,  we'll  abroad,  and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May  : 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying  ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some    have   despatched    their    cakes   and 

cream 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  wooed    and  plighted 

troth, 

And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth : 
27 


Many  a  green  gown  has  been  gi\< -n  : 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even : 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament: 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  key's  betraying 
This  night,  and    locks  picked,  yet  we're    not  a- 
Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime, 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 
We  shall  grow  old  apace  and  die 
Before  we  know  our  liberty. 
Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun : 
And  as  a  vapour,  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again : 
So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 
A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 
All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight, 
Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

HERRKK. 


28 


The  Cloud    o         «s»         <?•         o         •*>         -o 

I   BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 
From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under. 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits  ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea  ; 
29 


Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  Heaven's  blue  smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  Sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead  ; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  Sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath, 

Its  ardour  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  Heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden. 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  : 

30 


And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  Sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  Moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes   are    dim,  and   the  stars  reel  and 
swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam -proof,  1  hang  like  a  roof, — 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  1  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the   Powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my 
chair, 

Is  the  million-coloured  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove, 

While  the  moist  Earth  was  laughing  below. 
31 


I  am  the  daughter  of  Earth  and  Water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  Sky  ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores  ; 

I  change,  but  1  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  Heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex 
gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
1  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from 
the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

SHELLEY. 

The  Poet's  Song     o         o         o         ~£>         -o 

THE  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 
He  passed  by  the  town  and  out    of  the 

street, 

A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place, 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

32 


The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  fly, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak. 

And  stared,  writh  his  foot  on  the  prey, 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "  I  have  sung  many 
songs, 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 

TENNYSON. 


Chorus          o         *£>         o         o         o         ^-, 

THE  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 
The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn  : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam, 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far  ; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning  star. 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep, 
c  33 


A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize  ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again, 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

Oh,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be  ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laiaii  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free  : 

Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime  ; 
And  leave,  if  nought  so  bright  may  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued  : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers, 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 
34 


Oh,  cease  !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 

Cease  !  must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease  !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
Oh,  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 

SHELLEY. 


From  the  Night  of  Forebeing       o         o         o 

AN    ODE    AFTER    EASTER. 

"  In  the  chaos  of  preordination,  and  night  of  our  fore 
beings." — SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 

"  Et  lux  in  tenebris  erat,  et  tenebne  earn  non  compre- 
henderunt." — ST.  JOHN. 

CAST  wide  the  folding  doorways  of  the  East, 
For  now  is  light  increased  ! 
And  the  wind-besomed  chambers  of  the  air, 
See  they  be  garnished  fair ; 

And  look  the  ways  exhale  some  precious  odours, 
And  set  ye  all  about  wild-breathing  spice, 
Most  fit  for  Paradise. 
Now  is  no  time  for  sober  gravity, 
Season  enough  has  Nature  to  be  wise 
35 


But  now  discinct,  with  raiment  glittering  free, 
Shake  she  the  ringing  rafters  of  the  skies 
With  festal  footing  and  bold  joyance  sweet, 
And  let  the  earth  be  drunken  and  carouse ! 
For  lo,  into  her  house 
Spring  is  come  home  with  her  world-wandering 

feet, 
And    all    things    are   made   young    with    young 

desires ; 

And  all  for  her  is  light  increased 
In  yellow  stars  and  yellow  daffodils, 
And  East  to  West,  and  West  to  East, 
Fling  answering  welcome-fires, 
By  dawn  and  day-fall,  on  the  jocund  hills. 
And  ye,  winged  minstrels  of  her  fair  meinie, 
Being  newly  coated  in  glad  livery, 
I'pon  her  steps  attend, 

And  round  her  treading  dance  and  without  end 
Heel  your  shrill  lutany. 

What  popular  breath  her  coming  does  out-tell 
The  garrulous  leaves  among  ! 
What  little  noises  stir  and  pass 
From  blade  to  blade  along  the  voluble  grass! 
O  Nature,  never-done 
Ungaped-at  Pentecostal  miracle, 
We  hear  thee,  each  man  in  his  proper  tongue ! 
Break,  elemental  children,  break  ye  loose 
36 


From  the  strict  frosty  rule 

Of  grey-beard  Winter's  school. 

Vault,  O   young  winds,  vault  in  your  tricksome 

courses 

Upon  the  snowy  steeds  that  reinless  use 
In  coerule  pampas  of  the  heaven  to  run  ; 
Foaled  of  the  white  sea-horses, 
Washed  in  the  lambent  waters  of  the  sun. 
Let  even  the  slug-a-bed  snail  upon  the  thorn 
Put  forth  a  conscious  horn  ! 
Mine  elemental  co-mates,  joy  each  one  ; 
And  ah,  my  foster-brethren,  seem  not  sad — 
No,  seem  not  sad, 
That  my  strange  heart  and  I  should  be  so  little 

glad. 

Suffer  me  at  your  leafy  feast 
To  sit  apart,  a  somewhat  alien  guest, 
And  watch  your  mirth, 
Unsharing  in  the  liberal  laugh  of  earth  ; 
Yet  with  a  sympathy, 

Begot  of  wholly  sad  and  half-sweet  memory- — • 
The  little  sweetness  making  grief  complete  ; 
Faint    wind    of  wings    from    hours   that   distant 

beat, 

When  I,  I  too, 

Was  once,  O  wild  companions,  as  are  you, 
Ran  with  such  wilful  feet, 
37 


Wraith  of  a  recent  day  and  dead, 

Risen  wanly  overhead, 

Frail,  strengthless  as  a  noon-belated  moon, 

Or  as  the  glazing  eyes  of  watery  heaven, 

When  the  sick  night  sinks  into  deathly  swoon. 

A  higher  and  a  solemn  voice 

I  heard  through  your  gay-hearted  noise  ; 

A  solemn  meaning  and  a  stiller  voice 

Sounds   to   me   from   far  days  when  I   too  shall 

rejoice, 

Nor  more  be  with  your  jollity  at  strife. 
()  prophecy 

Of  things  that  are,  and  are  not,  and  shall  be ! 
The  great-vanned  Angel  March 
Hath  trumpeted 
His    clangorous    "Sleep    no   more"    to    all    the 

dead — 
Beat    his   strong  vans    o'er   earth,    and    air,    and 

sea. 

And  they  have  heard  ; 
Hark  to  the  Jubilate  of  the  bird 
For  them  that  found  the  dying  way  to  life ! 
And  they  have  heard, 

And  quicken  to  the  great  precursive  word  ; 
Green  spray  showers  lightly  down  the  cascade  of 

the  larch  ; 

38 


The  graves  are  riven, 

And  the  Sun  comes  with  power  amid  the  clouds 

of  heaven ! 
Before  his  way 

Went  forth  the  trumpet  of  the  March  ; 
Before  his  way,  before  his  way 
Dances  the  pennon  of  the  May  ! 
O  Earth,  unchilded,  widowed  Earth,  so  long 
Lifting  in  patient  pine  and  ivy-tree 
Mournful  belief  and  steadfast  prophecy, 
Behold  how  all  things  are  made  true ! 
Behold  your  bridegroom  cometh  in  to  you, 
Exceeding  glad  and  strong. 
Raise  up  your  eyes,  O  raise  your  eyes  abroad ! 
No  more  shall  you  sit  sole  and  vidual, 
Searching,  in  servile  pall, 
Upon  the  hieratic  night  the  star-sealed  sense  of 

all: 

Rejoice,  O  barren,  and  look  forth  abroad ! 
Your  children  gathered  back  to  your  embrace 
See  with  a  mother's  face. 
Look  up,  O  mortals,  and  the  portent  heed ; 
In  very  deed, 

Washed  with  new  fire  to  their  irradiant  birth, 
Reintegrated  are  the  heavens  and  earth  ! 
From  sky  to  sod, 
The  world's  unfolded  blossom  smells  of  Cod. 

39 


O  imagery 

Of  that  which  was  the  first,  and  is  the  last ! 
For  as  the  dark,  profound  nativity, 
God  saw  the  end  should  be, 
When  the  world's  infant  horoscope  He  cast. 
Unshackled  from  the  bright  Phoebean  awe, 
In  leaf,  flower,  mould,  and  tree, 
Resolved  into  dividual  liberty, 
Most  strengthless,  unparticipant,  inane, 
Or  suffered  the  ill  peace  of  lethargy, 
Lo,  the  Earth  eased  of  rule, 
Unsummered,  granted  to  her  own  worst  smart 
The  dear  wish  of  the  fool — 
Disintegration,  merely  which  man's  heart 
For  freedom  understands, 
Amid  the  frog-like  errors  from  the  damp 
And  quaking  swamp 

Of  the  low  popular  levels  spawned  in  all  the  lands. 
But  thou,  O  Earth,  dost  much  disdain 
The  bondage  of  thy  waste  and  futile  reign, 
And  sweetly  to  the  great  compulsion  draw 
Of  God's  alone  true-manumitting  law, 
And  Freedom,  only  which  the  wise  intend, 
To  work  thine  innate  end. 
Over  thy  vacant  counterfeit  of  death 
Broods  with  soft  urgent  breath 
Love,  that  is  child  of  Beauty  and  of  Awe  : 
40 


To  intercleavage  of  sharp  warring  pain, 

As  of  contending  chaos  come  again, 

Thou  wak'st,  O  Earth, 

And  work'st  from  change  to  change  and  birth  to 

birth 

Creation  old  as  hope,  and  new  as  sight ; 
For  meed  of  toil  not  vain, 
Hearing  once  more  the  primal  fiat  toll : — 
"  Let  there  be  light !  " 
And  there  is  light ! 
Light  flagrant,  manifest ; 
Light  to  the  zenith,  light  from  pole  to  pole ; 
Light  from  the  East  that  waxeth  to  the  West, 
And  with  its  puissant  goings-forth 
Encroaches  on  the  South  and  on  the  North ; 
And  with  its  great  approaches  does  prevail 
Upon  the  sullen  fastness  of  the  height, 
And  summoning  its  levied  power 
Crescent  and  confident  through  the  crescent  hour, 
Goes  down  with  laughters  on  the  subject  vale. 
Light  flagrant,  manifest ; 

Light  to  the  sentient  closeness  of  the  breast ! 
Light  to  the  secret  chambers  of  the  brain ! 
And  thou  up-floatest,  warm,  and  newly  bathed, 
Earth,  through  delicious  air, 

And  with  thine  own  apparent  beauties  swathed, 
Wringing  the  waters  from  thine  arborous  hair ; 


That  all  men's  hearts,  which  do  behold  and  see, 

Grow  weak  with  their  exceeding  much  desire, 

And  turn  to  thee  on  fire, 

Enamoured  with  their  utter  wish  of  thee, 

Anadyomene ! 

What  vine-outquickening  life  all  creatures  sup, 

Feel,  for  the  air  within  its  sapphire  cup 

How  it  does  leap,  and  twinkle  headily! 

Feel,  for  Earth's   bosom    pants,  and    heaves   her 

scarfing  sea ; 
And  round  and  round  in  bacchanal  rout  reel  the 

swift  spheres  intemperably ! 

My  little-worlded  self!  the  shadows  pass 
In  this  thy  sister-world,  as  in  a  glass, 
Of  all  processions  that  revolve  in  thee : 
Not  only  of  cyclic  Man 
Thou  here  discern' st  the  plan, 
Not  only  of  cyclic  Man,  but  of  the  cyclic  Me. 
Not  solely  of  Mortality's  great  years 
The  reflex  just  appears, 

But  thine  own  bosom's  year,  still  circling  round 
In  ample  and  in  ampler  gyre 
Toward  the  far  completion,  wherewith  crowned, 
Love  unconsumed  shall  chant  in  his  own  furnace- 
fire. 
How  many  trampled  and  deciduous  joys 

42 


Enrich  thy  soul  for  joys  deciduous  still, 

Before  the  distance  shall  fulfil 

Cyclic  unrest  with  solemn  equipoise ! 

Happiness  is  the  shadow  of  things  past, 

Which  fools  still  take  for  that  which  is  to  be ! 

And  not  all  foolishly : 

For  all  the  past,  read  true,  is  prophecy, 

And  all  the  firsts  are  hauntings  of  some  Last, 

And    all     the     springs    are     flash-lights    of    one 

Spring. 

Then  leaf,  and  flower,  and  falless  fruit 
Shall  hang  together  on  the  unyellowing  bough ; 
And  silence  shall  be  Music  mute 
For  her  surcharged  heart.     Hush  thou ! 
These  things  are  far  too  sure  that  thou  should'st 

dream 
Thereof,  lest  they  appear  as  things  that  seem. 

Shade  within  shade !  for  deeper  in  the  glass 
Now  other  imaged  meanings  pass  ; 
And  as  the  man,  the  poet  there  is  read. 
Winter  with  me,  alack  ! 
Winter  on  every  hand  I  find  : 
Soul,  brain,  and  pulses  dead  ; 
The  mind  no  further  by  the  warm  sense  fed, 
The  soul  weak-stirring  in  the  arid  mind, 
More  tearless-weak  to  flash  itself  abroad, 
43 


Than  the  earth's  life  beneath  the  frost-scorched 

sod. 

My  lips  have  drought,  and  crack, 
By  laving  music  long  unvisited. 
Beneath  the  austere  and  macerating  rime 
Draws  hack  constricted  in  its  icy  urns 
The  genial  flame  of  Earth,  and  there 
With  torment  and  with  tension  does  prepare 
The  lush  disclosures  of  the  vernal  time. 
All  joys  draw  inward  to  their  icy  urns, 
Tormented  by  constraining  rime, 
And  there 

With  uiidelight  and  throe  prepare 
The  bounteous  efflux  of  the  vernal  time. 
Nor  less  beneath  compulsive  Law 
Rebuked  draw 

The  numbed  musics  back  upon  my  heart  ; 
Whose  yet-triumphant  course  I  know 
And  prevalent  pulses  forth  shall  start, 
Like  cataracts  that  with   thunderous  hoof  charge 

the  disbanding  snow. 
All  power  is  bound 
In  quickening  refusal  so  ; 
And  silence  is  the  lair  of  sound  ; 
In  act  its  impulse  to  deliver, 
With  fluctuance  and  quiver 
The  endeavouring  thew  grows  rigid  ; 
44 


Strong 

From  its  retracted  coil  strikes  the  resilient  song. 

Giver  of  spring, 

And  song,  and  every  young  new  thing ! 
Thou  only  seest  in  me,  so  stripped  and  bare, 
The  lyric  secret  waiting  to  be  born, 
The  patient  term  allowed 
Before  it  stretch  and  flutteringly  unfold 
Its  rumpled  webs  of  amethyst-freaked,  diaphan- 
ous gold. 

And  what  hard  task  abstracts  me  from  delight, 
Filling  with  hopeless  hope  and  dear  despair 
The  still-born  day  and  parched  fields  of  night, 
That  my  old  way  of  song,  no  longer  fair, 
For  lack  of  serene  care, 
Is  grown  a  stony  and  a  weed-choked  plot, 
Thou  only  know'st  aright, 
Thou  only  know'st,  for  I  know  not. 
How  many  songs  must  die  that  this  may  live ! 
And  shall  this  most  rash  hope  and  fugitive, 
Fulfilled  with  beauty  and  with  might 
In  days  whose  feet  are  rumorous  on  the  air, 
Make  me  forget  to  grieve 

For  songs  which  might  have  been,  nor  ever  were  ? 
Stern  the  denial,  the  travail  slow, 
The  struggling  wall  will  scantly  grow : 
45 


And  though  with  that  dread  rite  of  sacrifice 
Ordained  for  during  edifice, 
How  long,  how  long  ago ! 
Into  that  wall  which  will  not  thrive 
I  build  myself  alive. 

Ah,  who  shall  tell  me,  will  the  wall  uprise  ? 
Thou  wilt  not  tell  me,  who  dost  only  know ! 
Yet  still  in  mind  I  keep, 

He  which  observes  the  wind  shall  hardly  sow, 
He  which  regards  the  clouds  shall  hardly  reap. 
Thine  ancient  way  !   I  give, 
Nor  wit  if  I  receive  ; 

Risk  all,  who  all  would  gain  :   and  blindly.     Be 
it  so. 

"  And  blindly,"  said  I  ?— No  ! 

That  saying  I  unsay  :  the  wings 

Hear  I  not  in  prsevenient  winnowings 

Of  coming  songs,  that  lift  my  hair  and  stir  it  ? 

What  winds  with  music  wet  do  the  sweet  storm 

foreshow  ! 
Utter  stagnation 

Is  the  solstitial  slumber  of  the  spirit, 
The  blear  and  blank  negation  of  all  life  : 
But  these   sharp    questionings    mean    strife,  and 

strife 

Is  the  negation  of  negation. 
46 


The  thing  from  which  I  turn  my  troubled  look, 

Fearing  the  gods'  rebuke  ; 

That  perturbation  putting  glory  on, 

As  is  the  golden  vortex  in  the  West 

Over  the  foundered  sun  ; 

That — but  low  breathe  it,  lest  the  Nemesis 

Unchild  me,  vaunting  this — 

Is  bliss,  the  hid,  hugged,  swaddled  bliss ! 

O  youngling  Joy  carest ! 

That  on  my  now  first-mothered  breast 

Pliest  the  strange  wonder  of  thine  infant  lip, 

What  this  aghast  surprise  of  keenest  panging, 

Wherefrom  I  blench,  and  cry  thy  soft  mouth  rest  ? 

Ah    hold,  withhold,   and    let    the    sweet    mouth 

slip ! 

So,  with  such  pain,  recoils  the  woolly  dam, 
Unused,  affrighted,  from  her  yeanling  lamb : 
I,  one  with  her  in  cruel  fellowship, 
Marvel  what  unmaternal  thing  I  am. 

Nature,  enough  !  within  thy  glass 
Too  many  and  too  stern  the  shadows  pass. 
In  this  delighted  season,  flaming 
For  thy  resurrection-feast, 
Ah,  more  I  think  the  long  ensepulture  cold, 
Than  stony  winter  rolled 
From  the  unsealed  mouth  of  the  holy  East ; 
47 


The  snowdrop's  saintly  stoles  less  heed 

Than  the  snow-cloistered  penance  of  the  seed. 

'Tis  the  weak  flesh  reclaiming 

Against  the  ordinance 

Which  yet  for  just  the  accepting  spirit  scans. 

Earth  waits,  and  patient  heaven, 

Self-bonded  God  doth  wait 

Thrice-promulgated  bans 

Of  his  fair  nuptial-date. 

And  power  is  man's, 

With  that  great  word  of  "wait," 

To  still  the  sea  of  tears, 

And  shake  the  iron  heart  of  Fate. 

In  that  one  word  is  strong 

An  else,  alas,  much-mortal  song  ; 

With  sight  to  pass  the  frontier  of  all  spheres, 

And  voice  which  does  my  sight  such  wrong. 

Not  without  fortitude  I  wait 
The  dark  majestical  ensuit 
Of  destiny,  nor  peevish  rate 
•Calm-knowledged  Fate. 

I,  that  no  part  have  in  the  time's  bragged  way 
And  its  loud  bruit ; 
I,  in  this  house  so  rifted,  marred, 
So  ill  to  live  in,  hard  to  leave ; 
I,  so  star-weary,  over-warred, 
48 


That  have  no  joy  in  this  your  day — 

Rather  foul  fume  englutting,  that  of  day 

Confounds  all  ray — 

But  only  stand  aside  and  grieve  ; 

I  yet  have  sight  beyond  the  smoke, 

And  kiss  the  gods'  feet,  though  they  wreak 

Upon  me  stroke  and  again  stroke ; 

And  this  my  seeing  is  not  weak. 

The  Woman  I  behold,  whose  vision  seek 

All  eyes  and  know  not ;  t'ward  whom  climb 

The   steps   o'   the  world,  and   beats  all  wing  of 

rhyme, 

And  knows  not ;  'twixt  the  sun  and  moon 
Her  inexpressible  front  enstarred 
Tempers  the  wrangling  spheres  to  tune ; 
Their  divergent  harmonies 
Concluded  in  the  concord  of  her  eyes, 
And  vestal  dances  of  her  glad  regard. 
I  see,  which  fretteth  with  surmise 
Much  heads  grown  unsagacious-grey, 
The  slow  aim  of  wise-hearted  Time, 
Which  folded  cycles  within  cycles  cloak : 
We  pass,  we  pass,  we  pass  ;  this   does   not  pass 

away, 
But  holds  the  furrowing  earth  still  harnessed  to 

its  yoke. 

The  stars  still  write  their  golden  purposes 
D  49 


On  heaven's  high  palimpsest,  and  no  man  sees, 
Nor  any  therein  Daniel ;  I  do  hear 
From  the  revolving  year 
A  voice  which  cries  : 
"  All  dies ; 

Lo,  how  all  dies  !  O  seer, 
And  all  things  too  arise  : 
All  dies,  and  all  is  born  ; 

But  each  resurgent  morn,  behold,  more  near  the 
Perfect  Morn." 

Firm  is  the  man,  and  set  beyond  the  cast 
Of  Fortune's  game,  and  the  iniquitous  hour, 
Whose  falcon  soul  sits  fast, 
And  not  intends  her  high  sagacious  tour 
Or  ere  the  quarry  sighted ;  who  looks  past 
To  slow  much  sweet  from  little  instant  sour, 
And  in  the  first  does  always  see  the  last. 

FHAXCIS  THOMPSON. 


5° 


BOOK   III 
THE    LOVER 


Eve  in  Ecleii  o         o         o         o         o 

"  ^  WEET  is  the  breath  of  Morn, her  rising  sweet, 
K_/      With  charm  of  earliest  birds  ;  pleasant  the 

sun, 

When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His    orient    beams,    on    herb,    tree,    fruit,   and 

flower, 

Glist'ring  with  dew ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  showers ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild  ;  then  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these  the  gems  of  heav'n,  her  starry  train  : 
But  neither  breath  of  Mom  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds,  nor  rising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land,  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower, 
Glist'ring  with  dew,  nor  fragrance  after  showers, 
Nor  grateful  evening  mild,  nor  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  nor  walk  by  moon, 
Or  glittering  starlight,  without  thee  is  sweet. 
53 


But  wherefore  all  night  long   shine   these?    for 

whom 
This  glorious  sight,  when  sleep  hath  shut  all  eyes?" 

To  whom  our  general  ancestor  replied  : 
"  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake,  and  when  we  sleep  : 
All  these  with  ceaseless  praise  his  works  behold 
Both  day  and  night :  how  often  from  the  steep 
Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air, 
Sole,  or  responsive  each  to  other's  note, 
Singing  their  great  Creator  ?  oft  in  bands 
While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk, 
With  heav'nly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds 
In  full  harmonic  number  joined,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  thoughts  to  heaven." 

Thus  talking,  hand  in  hand  alone  they  passed 
On  to  their  blissful  bower ;  it  was  a  place 
Chosen  by  the  sov'reign  planter,  when  He  framed 
All  things  to  man's  delightful  use :  the  roof 
Of  thickest  covert  was  inwoven  shade, 
Laurel  and  myrtle,  and  what  higher  grew 
Of  firm  and  fragrant  leaf;  on  either  side 
Acanthus  and  each  odorous  bushy  shrub 
Fenced    up    the   verdant   wall,   each   beauteous 

flower, 

Iris  all  hues,  roses,  and  jessamine, 
54 


Reared  high  their  flourished  heads  between,  and 

wrought 

Mosaic  ;  under  foot  the  violet, 
Crocus,  and  hyacinth  with  rich  inlay 
Broidered  the  ground,  more  coloured  than  with 

stone 

Of  costliest  emblem  :  other  creature  here, 
Beast,  bird,  insect,  or  worm,  durst  enter  none ; 
Such  was  their  awe  of  man.     In  shadier  bower 
More  sacred  and  sequestered,  though  but  feigned, 
Pan  or  Sylvanus  never  slept ;  nor  nymph 
Nor  Faunus  haunted.     Here,  in  close  recess, 
With  flowers,  garlands,  and  sweet-smelling  herbs, 
Espoused  Eve  decked  first  her  nuptial  bed, 
And  heav'nly  choirs  the  Hymenaean  sung, 
What  day  the  genial  angel  to  our  sire 
Brought  her  in  naked  beauty  more  adorned, 
More  lovely  than  Pandora,  whom  the  Gods 
Endowed  with  all  their  gifts ;  and  O,  too  like 
In  sad  event,  when  to  the  unwiser  son 
Of  Japhet  brought  by  Hermes,  she  ensnared 
Mankind  with  her  fair  looks,  to  be  avenged 
On  him  who  had  stole  Jove's  authentic  fire. 

Thus,  at  their  shady  lodge  arrived,  both  stood, 
Both  turned,  and  under  open  sky  adored 
The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heav'n 
Which  they  beheld,  the  moon's  resplendent  globe, 
55 


And  starry  pole.     "Thou  also  mad'st  the  night, 
Maker  Omnipotent,  and  thou  the  day, 
Which  we,  in  our  appointed  work  employed, 
Have  finished,  happy  in  our  mutual  help 
And  mutual  love,  the  crown  of  all  our  bliss 
Ordained  by  thee,  and  this  delicious  place 
For  us  too  large,  where  thy  abundance  wants 
Partakers,  and  uncropt  falls  to  the  ground. 
But  thou  hast  promised  from  us  two  a  race 
To  fill  the  earth,  who  shall  with  us  extol 
Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 
And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  sleep." 

MILTON. 


A  Song 


G' 


O,  lovely  Rose ! 

Tell  her,  that  wastes   her  time 

and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 
56 


Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired  : 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die  !  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  : 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair ! 

WALLER. 


A  Paean  of  Love      o         o         o         *£>         o 

"  "P^vOUBT  you  to  whom  my  Muse  these  notes 

-I— J      intendeth  ; 

Which    now    my    breast    o'ercharged    to    music 
lendeth  ? 

To  you  !  to. you  !  all  song  of  praise  is  due  : 
Only  in  you  my  song  begins  and  endeth. 

"  Who  hath    the    eyes    which   marry   state   with 

pleasure, 
Who  keeps  the  keys  of  Nature's  chiefest  treasure  ? 

To  you  !  to  you  !  all  song  of  praise  is  due  : 
Only  for  you  the  heaven  forgat  all  measure. 
57 


"  Who   hath    the    lips,    where    wit    in    fairness 

reigneth  ? 
Who  womankind  at  once  both  decks  and  staineth  ? 

To  you  !  to  you  !  all  song  of  praise  is  due  : 
Only  by  you  Cupid  his  crown  maintaineth. 

"Who  hath  the  feet,  whose  steps  all  sweetness 

planteth  ? 
Who   else ;    for    whom    Fame   worthy    trumpets 

wanteth  ? 

To  you  !  to  you  !  all  song  of  praise  is  due  : 
Only  to  you  her  sceptre  Venus  granteth. 


11  Who  hath  the  breast,  whose  milk  doth  passions 

nourish  ? 
Whose  grace  is  such,  that  when  it    chides  doth 

cherish  ? 

To  you  !  to  you  !  all  song  of  praise  is  due  : 
Only  through  you  the  tree  of  life  doth  flourish. 

"Who    hath    the    hand,    which    without    stroke 

subdueth  ? 
WTho  long  dead  beauty  with  increase  reneweth  ? 

To  you  !  to  you  !  all  song  of  praise  is  due  : 
Only  at  you  all  envy  hopeless  rueth. 
58 


"  Who  hath  the  hair,  which  loosest  fastest  tieth  ? 
Who  makes  a  man  live  then  glad  when  he  dieth  ? 

To  you  !  to  you  !  all  song  of  praise  is  due  : 
Only  of  you  the  flatterer  never  lieth. 

"  Who   hath   the   voice,  which  soul  from  senses 

sunders  ? 
WThose    force    but    yours    the    bolts    of  beauty 

thunders  ? 

To  you  !  to  you  !  all  song  of  praise  is  due  : 
Only  with  you  not  miracles  are  wonders. 

"  Doubt   you    to   whom   my   Muse    these   notes 

intend  eth  ? 
Which    now    my    breast    o'ercharged    to   music 

lendeth  ? 

To  you  !  to  you  !  all  song  of  praise  is  due  : 
Only  in  you  my  song  begins  and  endeth." 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 


Ask  me  no  more     *s*         o-         o         o         <. 

ASK  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose  ; 
For  in  your  beauties'  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

59 


Ask  me  no  more,  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 
For  in  pure  love  Heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  those  stars  light, 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night ; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more,  if  East  or  West 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest ; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

CAREW. 


A  Song 


GO  not,  happy  day, 
From  the  shining  fields, 
Go  not,  happy  day, 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
60 


Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

Over  glowing  ships ; 
Over  blowing  seas, 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West ; 
Till  the  red  man  dance, 

By  his  red  cedar-tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 

TENNYSON. 


61 


The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love      o 

COME  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield. 

There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull, 
Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 
62 


Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

MARLOWE. 


A  Cedar  of  Lebanon 


I   HAVE  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for  end, 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good. 


None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  pattering  talk 
Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk, 
And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once  more  ; 
63 


But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door, 

The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she  is  gone. 


There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 

O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 

In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  delicious 

East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  increased, 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my  fate, 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar-flame ; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have  spread 
With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden,  there 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from  whom  she 

came. 

IV. 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches  sway, 
And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 
64 


Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 

As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 

To  labour  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand, 

Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  understand 

A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 

That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies, 

Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 

Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and  brand 

His  nothingness  into  man. 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a  pearl 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky, 
And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would  die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple  girL 


Would  die  ;  for  sullen-seeming  Death  may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 

In  our  low  world,  where  yet  'tis  sweet  to  live. 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass ; 

It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 

A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 

A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

E  65 


Xot  die  ;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal  wrongs. 
O.  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking-songs, 
Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of  death  ? 
Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 
Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  loving  kiss, 
Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this  ? 
"  The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 
With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more 
dear." 

TENNYSON. 


Song  •&•          o          ~o          <a>-          o          -f> 

O  MISTRESS  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
O,  stay  and  hear,  your  true  love's  coming 
That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  : 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting ! 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?     'Tis  not  hereafter  : 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter, 
What's  to  come  is  still  unsure. 
66 


In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty, 
Then  come,  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 
Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Song  <^>         •£>         o         •£>         •£>         •&• 

MOVE  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow  : 
From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 

O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go ; 
Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 

Thy  silver  sister-Avorld,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 
That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry-  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 

TENNYSON. 

Lorenzo  and  Jessica  •&•         *o         o         o 

Lor.  r  I  AHE  moon  shines  bright :  in  such  a  night 

JL        as  this, 

When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees 
And  they  did  make  no  noise,  in  such  a  night 
67 


Troilus  methinks  mounted  the  Troyan  walls 

And  sighed  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 

Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jess.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew 

And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself 

And  ran  dismayed  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 

Upon  the  wild  sea-banks  and  waft  her  love 

To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jess.  In  such  a  night 

Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs 

That  did  renew  old  /Eson. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew  : 

And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice 

As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jexs.  In  such  a  night 

Did  young  Loren/o  swear  he  loved  her  well, 

Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith 

And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 

Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 


68 


How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  we  will  sit  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears :  soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold  : 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

SHAKESPEARE  (The  Merchant  of  Venice). 


Under  the  Stars      <?•         o          <?•         o*         •& 

IS  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 
Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay  } 
And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 
Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal  white, 
And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play ; 
But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her  sight 
And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and  stol'n  away 
To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies  dwell 
Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 
May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  affright ! 
69 


Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy  spell. 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 
My  own  heart's  heart,  my  ownest  own,  farewell ; 
It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go : 
And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 
Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night ! 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the  glow 
Of  your  soft  splendours  that  you  look  so  bright? 
I  have  climbed  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 
Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  below, 
Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart  can  tell, 
Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  wot- 
That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not  be  so  : 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 

TKNNYMIV 


To  Night     *&         o         o         -o         o         < 

SWIFTLY  walk  over  the  western  wave, 
Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  cistern  cave, 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear. — 
Swift  be  thy  flight ! 
70 


Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought ; 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day  : 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee  ; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest. 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ? — And  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled  ; 
71 


Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 
Come  soon,  soon  ! 

SHELLEY. 


The  Departure 


AND  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old  : 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  followed  him. 


"  I'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O  love,  for  such  another  kiss  "  ; 
"  O  wake  for  ever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"O  love,  'twas  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar, 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 
72 


III. 
*f  O  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  !  " 

"  O  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  !  " 
"  O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep !  " 

"  O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead  !  " 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapour  buoy'd  the  crescent-bark, 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change, 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

IV. 

" A  hundred  summers!  can  it  be? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where  ?  " 
"  O  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

Thro'  all  the  world  she  follow'd  him. 

TENNYSON  (J'rom  "  The  Day-Dream  "). 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight     <?•         -^*         o 

SHE  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight  ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

73 


Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair  ; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Kndurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill, 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
74 


And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

\VoRDS\VORTH. 


The  Lady  of  the  Lambs     •£>          •&•          <?•          « 

SHE  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 
A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 
Her  flocks  are  thoughts.     She  keeps  them 

white  ; 

She  guards  them  from  the  steep. 
She  feeds  them  on  the  fragrant  height, 
And  folds  them  in  for  sleep. 

She  roams  maternal  hills  and  bright, 

Dark  valleys  safe  and  deep. 
Into  that  tender  breast  at  night 

The  chastest  stars  may  peep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

She  holds  her  little  thoughts  in  sight. 
Though  gay  they  run  and  leap. 

She  is  so  circumspect  and  right ; 
She  has  her  soul  to  keep. 

She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

ALICE  MEYNELL. 

75 


SHALL  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  .- 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date  : 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed  ; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 

By    chance    or   nature's    changing    course    un- 

trimmed ; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 

Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  them  owest ; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wanderst  in  his  shade, 

When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  grow'st : 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


Andrea  Del  Sarto  o         o         ^>         <2>          o 
Called  the  "  Faultless  Painter." 

BUT  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No.  my  Lucrezia  ;  bear  with  me  for  once  : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way. 
76 


Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it  ?  tenderly? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him, — but  to-morrow,  Love ! 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half  hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly,  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this ! 
Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  either ;  you  must  serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require — 
It  saves  a  model.     So  !  keep  looking  so — 
My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds : 
— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there !  oh,  so  sweet — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 
W'hich  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 
And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 
WThile  she  looks — no  one's  :  very  dear,  no  less  ! 
You  smile  ?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready  made. 
77 


There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony  ! 
A  common  greyness  silvers  everything, — 
All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 
— You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That's  gone  you  know), — but  I,  at  every  point ; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 
To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 
There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top ; 
That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 
The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden  ;  days  decrease 
And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 
Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 
As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 
A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 
How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  He  makes  us  lead ! 
So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are : 
I  feel  He  laid  the  fetter :  let  it  lie  ! 
This  chamber  for  example — turn  your  head — 
All  that's  behind  us  !  you  don't  understand 
Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 
But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak  ; 
And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 
— It  is  the  thing,  Love  !  so  such  things  should  be — 
Behold  Madonna,  I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  Avith  my  pencil  what  I  know, 
78 


What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 

Do  easily,  too — when  I  say  perfectly 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps  :  yourself  are  judge 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week, 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it, 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long  past — 

I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives 

— Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonise  to  do, 

And  fail  in  doing.      I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 

Who  strive — you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  some  one  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  so  much  less ! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia !     I  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In   their  vexed,  beating,  stuffed   and  stopped-up 

brain, 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 
This  low-pulsed    forthright    craftsman's    hand    of 

mine. 
Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I 

know, 

Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut  to  me, 
79 


Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men  !  at  a  word — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 

Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken — what  of  that  r  or  else, 

Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered — what  of  that  ~: 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what's  a  Heaven  for  ?  all  is  silver-grey 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art — the  worse ! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain  — 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world  !  "      No 

doubt. 

Yonder's  a  work,  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 
('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 
Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 
Reaching,  that  Heaven  might  so  replenish  hin  . 
Above  and  through  his  art — for  it  gives  way  ; 
That  arm  is  wrongly  put — and  there  again — 
80 


A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak !  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm !  and  I  could  alter  it. 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch — 

Out  of  me  !  out  of  me  !     And  wherefore  out  ? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you. 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 

And  pei'fect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare — 

Had    you,  with  these  the   same,   but  brought   n 

mind ! 

Some  women  do  so.      Had  the  mouth  there  urged 
"  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  for  gain. 
The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that  ? 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Angelo — 
Rafael  is  waiting.     Up  to  God  all  three  !  " 
I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seeir.s — 
Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  over-rules. 
Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 
The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you  ? 
What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Angelo  ? 
In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  nok — 
F  81 


And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive : 

Yet    the    will's    somewhat — somewhat,    too,    the 

power — 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end, 
God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 
'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 
That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 
Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 
I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 
For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 
The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside  ; 
But  they  speak  sometimes  ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 
Well  may  they  speak !     That  Francis,  that  first 

time, 

A  ml  thai  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau ! 
I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look, — 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 
Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 
82 


This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward ! 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days  ? 
And  had  you  not  grown  restless — but  I  know — 
'Tis  done  and  past ;  'twas  right,  my  instinct  said  ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  grey — 
And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 
Out  of  the  grange  whose    four  walls   make    his 

world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 
The  triumph  was  to  have  ended  there — then  if 
I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 
You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine ! 
"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that — 
The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife — " 
Men  will  excuse  me.      I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence  ;  clearer  grows 
My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 
Said  one  day  Angelo,  his  very  self, 
To  Rafael  ...   I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  . 
(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 
Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

83 


"Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how, 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours  !  " 

To  Rafael's ! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare — yet,  only  you  to  see, 

Give  the  chalk  here — quick,  thus  the  line  should 

go! 

Ay,  but  the  soul !  he's  Rafael !  rub  it  out ! 
Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 
(What  he  ?  why,  who  but  Michael  Angelo  ? 
Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?) 
If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, 
Is,    whether     you're — not     grateful — but     more 

pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed  ! 
This  hour  has  been  an  hour !     Another  smile  ? 
If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 
I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 
I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now  ;  there's  a  star ; 
Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 
The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 
Come  from  the  window,  Love, — come  in,  at  last, 
Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 
84 


King  Francis  may  foi'give  me.     Oft  at  nights 
When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 
The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar  fierce  bright  gold, 
That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with  ! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go  ? 
That  Cousin  here  again  ?  he  waits  outside  ? 
Must  see  you — you,  and    not  with   me?     Those 

loans ! 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay  ?  you  smiled  for  that  ? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 
While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 
Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's  it  worth  ? 
I'll  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 
The  grey  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 
Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How  I  could  paint  were  I  but  back  in  France, 
One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's  face, 
Not  yours  this  time  !     I  want  you  at  my  side 
To  hear  them — that  is,  Michael  Angelo — 
Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 
Will  you  ?     To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 
I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 
Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand — there,  there, 
And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 
If  he  demurs  ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 
To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 
85 


What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about, 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff. 

Love,  does  that  please  you  ?     Ah,  but  what  does 

he, 
The  Cousin !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it  ? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis  !  it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich  !     Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they 

died : 

And  I  have  laboured  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him  try ! 
No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a   balance. 

Yes, 

You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have  ? 
In    heaven,    perhaps,    new    chances,    one    more 

chance — 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
86 


Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Angelo  and  me 
To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While  I  have  mine  !     So — still  they  overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle !     Go,  my  Love. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

"  O  that  'twere  possible "  o         o         *£> 

i. 

OTHAT  'twere  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  ! 

ii. 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

in. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me, 
Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  : 

87 


Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might 

tell  us 
What  and  where  they  be. 

IV. 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

v. 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies  ; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 

VI. 

'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet 
And  a  dewy  splendour  falls 
88 


On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls  ; 
'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings ; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet ; 
She  is  singing  in  the  meadow 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 


Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 
My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 
My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  ? 
But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passionate 

cry, 

There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 
And  a  sullen  thunder  is  rolled  ; 
For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city, 
And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled  ; 
In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity, 
By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 
89 


VIII. 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again, 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 
Pass,  thou  death-like  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about ! 
'Tis  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  trill  show  itself  without. 

IX. 

Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall, 
And  the  yellow  vapours  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide  ; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 

x. 

Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 
I  steal,  a  wasted  frame, 
It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there, 
Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud, 
The  shadow  still  the  same  ; 
And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

XI. 

Also  for  her  that  met  me 
That  heard  me  softly  call, 
90 


Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 
At  the  quiet  evenfall, 
In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 
Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 

XII. 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest, 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say,  "  Forgive  the  wrong," 
Or  to  ask  her,  "  Take  me,  sweet, 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest  ?  " 

XIII. 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 

And  will  not  let  me  be ; 

And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me  : 

Always  I  long  to  creep 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 

TEXXYSOX. 


A  Paean        <y         o          o          <3»          o          o> 

"  T      IVE  in  these  conquering  leaves :  live    all 

J — ./          the  same  ; 
And  walk    through  all   tongues  one    triumphant 

flame  ; 
Live  here,  great  heart ;  and  love,  and    die,  and 

kill; 
And  bleed,  and  wound,  and  yield,  and   conquer 

still. 

Let  this  immortal  life  where'er  it  comes 
Walk  in  a  crowd  of  loves  and  martyrdoms. 
Let  mystic  deaths  wait  on't ;  and  wist-  souls  be 
The  love-slain  witnesses  of  this  life  of  thee. 
O  sweet  incendiary  !  show  here  thy  art, 
Upon  this  carcase  of  a  hard  cold  heart ; 
Let  all  thy  scatter'd  shafts  of  light,  that  play 
Among  the  leaves  of  thy  large  books  of  day, 
Combin'd  against  this  breast  at  once  break  in, 
And  take  away  from  me  myself  and  sin  ; 
This  gracious  robbery  shall  thy  bounty  be 
And  my  best  fortunes  such  fair  spoils  of  me. 
O  thou  undaunted  daughter  of  desires  ! 
Bv  all  thy  pow'r  of  lights  and  fires  ; 
By  all  the  eagle  in  thee,  all  the  dove  ; 
By  all  thy  lives  and  deaths  of  love  ; 
By  thy  large  draughts  of  intellectual  day  ; 
92 


And  by  thy  thirsts  of  love  more  large  than  they  ; 

By  all  thy  brim-fill'd  bowls  of  fierce  desire  ; 

By  thy  last  morning's  draught  of  liquid  fire  ; 

By  the  full  kingdom  of  that  final  kiss 

That  seized  thy  parting  soul,  and  seal'd  thee  his  ; 

By  all  the  heavens  thou  hast  in  him, 

(Fair  sister  of  the  seraphim) 

By  all  of  him  we  have  in  thee  ; 

Leave  nothing  of  myself  in  me. 

Let  me  so  read  thy  life,  that  I 

Unto  all  life  of  mine  may  die." 

CRASHAW. 


To 


ONE  word  is  too  often  profaned 
For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it ; 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 
Than  that  from  another. 
93 


II. 
I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not, — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 

SHELLEY. 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars  o 

TELL  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 
That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 

LOVELACE. 

94 


On  Receiving  a  Monthly  Rose      •£>         o 

PyESTUM  !  thy  roses  long  ago, 
All  roses  far  above, 
Twice  in  the  year  were  call'tl  to  blow 
And  braid  the  locks  of  Love. 

He  saw  the  city  sink  in  dust, 

It's  roses'  roots  decay'd, 
And  cried  in  sorrow,  "  Find  I  must 

Another  for  my  braid." 

First  Cyprus,  then  the  Syrian  shore 

To  Pharpar's  lucid  rill, 
Did  those  two  large  dark  eyes  explore, 

But  wanted  something  still. 

Damascus  filled  his  heart  with  joy, 

So  sweet  her  roses  were ! 
He  cull'd  them ;  but  the  wayward  boy 

Thought  them  ill  worth  his  care. 

"  I  want  them  every  month,"  he  cried, 

"  I  want  them  every  hour  ; 
Perennial  rose,  and  none  beside, 
Henceforth  shall  be  my  flower." 

LANDOR. 
95 


Till  the  Rocks  Melt  \vi'  the  Sun  <?         <s> 

OMY  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June  ; 

0  my  Luve's  like  the  melodic 
That's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I  : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry : 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun  ; 

1  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luve ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

BURNS. 

Song  *£>         o         •&•         o-         •&• 

YOU'LL  love  me  yet! — and  I  can  tarry 
Your  love's  protracted  growing. 
June  reared  that  bunch  of  flowers  you  carry 
From  seeds  of  April's  sowing. 
96 


I  plant  a  heartfull  now — some  seed 

At  least  is  sure  to  strike 
And  yield — what  you'll  not  pluck  indeed, 

Not  love,  but,  may  be,  like ! 

You'll  look  at  least  on  love's  remains, 

A  grave's  one  violet : 
Your  look  ? — that  pays  a  thousand  pains. 

What's  death  ? — You'll  love  me  yet. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

Evelyn  Hope  o         o         o         <? 


BEAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead ! 
Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think — 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 
Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 


Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name — 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love :  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
G  97 


Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 
And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir — 

Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, 
And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 


Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope  r 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  nought  beside } 


IV. 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love, — 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few- 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 
98 


V. 

But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I  shall  say, 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red- 
Aiid  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

VI. 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me — 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see  ! 

VII. 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young 

smile 

And  the  red  young  mouth  and  the  hair's  young 
gold. 

99 


So,  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep — 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand. 

There,  that  is  our  secret !  go  to  sleep  ; 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 

KoiIEKT   Hno\VMN(i. 

Love's  Farewell      •*>         •*>         o         o         -t> 

SINCE  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and 
part, — 

Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free  ; 

Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath, 
When  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless  lies, 
When  faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
And  innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 

— Now  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have  given  him 

over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover ! 

DRAYTON. 
100 


True  Love   o         o-         o         <?•         *&*         o 

LET  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : — 

0  no !     It  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's'  unknown,  although  his  height 

be  taken. 

Love's    not    Time's    fool,    though    rosy   lips    and 
cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  ev'n  to  the  edge  of  doom : — 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 

1  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


Song 


LOVE  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
.>     Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
101 


Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 
Even  so. 

Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?  for  we  forget : 
Ah,  no  !  no ! 

TENNYSON. 


The  Bargain  o         •&•         o         •&•         •&• 

MY  true  love  heth  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  for  another  given  : 
1  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 

There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven  : 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides 

He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides : 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

102 


The  Wife  to  the  Husbands 


I   THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for 

years, 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young : 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
The  sweet  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years,  .   .   . 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware 
So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair ; 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery  while  I  strove,  .  .  . 
"  Guess   now   who   holds   thee  ?  " — "  Death  !  "   I 

said.     But  there, 
The   silver  answer   rang,  ..."  Not  Death,   but 

Love." 


I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 
To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 
Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 
I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length,  and  say, 
"Take  it."     My  day  of  youth  went  yesterday  ; 
103 


My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee, 
Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 
As  girls  do,  any  more.     It  only  in.-iv 
Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks,  the  mark  of  tears, 
Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs  aside 
Through  sorrow's  trick.     I  thought  the  funeral- 
shears 

Would  take  this  first ;  but  Love  is  justified  : 
Take  it   thou,  .  .   .  finding   pure,  from  all  those 

years, 
The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 

in. 

When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong, 
Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and  nigher, 
Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At  either  curved  point, — what  bitter  wrong 
Gin  the  earth  do  us,  that  we  should  not  long 
Be  here  contented  ?    Think.    In  mounting  higher, 
The  angels  would  press  on  us,  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.     Let  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth,  Beloved, — where  the  unfit 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day. 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding  it. 
104 


IV. 

My    letters !     all     dead     paper,  .  .   .  mute    and 

white ! — 

And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 
Against    my   tremulous    hands,  which    loose   the 

string 

And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  to-night. 
This  said,  ...  he  wished  to  have  me  in  his  sight 
Once,  as  a  friend :  this  fixed  a  day  in  spring 
To  come  and  touch  my  hand  ...  a  simple  thing, 
Yet  1  wept  for  it ! — this,  .  .  .  the  paper's  light  .  .  . 
Said,  Dear,  I  love  thee :  and  I  sank  and  quailed 
As  if  God's  future  thundered  on  my  past : 
This  said,  /  am  thine — and  so  its  ink  has  paled 
With  lying  at  my  heart  that  beat  too  fast : 
And  this  .  .  .  O  Love,  thy  words  have  ill  availed, 
If,  what  this  said,  I  dared  repeat  at  last! 


If  1  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 

And  he  all  to  me  ?     Shall  I  never  miss 

Home  talk  and  blessing,  and  the  common  kiss 

That  conies  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it  strange 

When  I  look  up  to  drop  on  a  new  range 

Of  walls  and  floors  .  .  .  another  home  than  this  ? 

Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is 


Filled  by  dead  eyes,  too  tender  to  know  change  ? 
That's  hardest !     If  to  conquer  love,  has  tried, 
To  conquer  grief  tries  more  ...  as   all   things 

prove : 

For  grief  indeed  is  love,  and  grief  beside. 
Alas !     I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love — 
Yet  love  me — wilt  thou  ?    Open  thine  heart  wide, 
And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 

VI. 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write, 
And  ever  since  it  grew  more  clean  and  white,  .  .   . 
Slow  to  world-greetings  .   .  .   quick  with  its  "  Oh, 

list !  " 

When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 
I  could  not  wear  here  plainer  to  my  -sight, 
Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in  height 
The    first,   and    sought    the    forehead,   and    half 

missed, 

Half  falling  on  the  hair.     O  beyond  meed  ! 
That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's  own 

crown, 

With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 
The  third,  upon  my  lips,  was  folded  down 
In  perfect,  purple  state !  since  when,  indeed, 
I  have  been  proud,  and  said,  "  My  Love,  my  own." 
106 


How  do  I  love  thee  ?     Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 

For  the  ends  of  Being  and  Ideal  Grace. 

I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 

I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise  ; 

I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith  ; 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life ! — and,  if  God  choose 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

E.  B.  BROWNING. 


One  Word  More      o         •&• 
To  E.  B.  B. 


THERE  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished  ! 
Take  them,  Love,  the  book  and  me  together. 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 
107 


Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets, 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 

Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 

Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas : 

These,    the    world    might    view — but    one,    the 

volume. 
Who    that    one,  you  ask  ?     Your  heart  instructs 

you. 

Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  ? 
Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 
Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 
Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 
Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving — 
Cheek,  the  world  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 
Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's  ? 


You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 
Would  we  not?  than  wonder  at  Madonna*.— 
Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision, 
Her,  that's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 
108 


You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 

Guido  Reni,  like  his  own  eye's  apple 

Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it. 

Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 

Cried,    and    the    world    with    it,    "  Ours  —  the 

treasure !  " 
Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 


Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom  to  please  ?     You  whisper  "  Beatrice." 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 
(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for, 
When,  his  left-hand  i'  the  hair  o'  the  wicked, 
Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma, 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 
Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 
Let  the  wretch  go  festering  thro'  Florence) — 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated, 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel, — 
In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 
Says  he — "Certain  people  of  importance  " 
(Such  he  gave  his  daily,  dreadful  line  to) 
109 


Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet. 
Says  the  poet — "  Then  I  stopped  my  painting. 


You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Fainted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  ? — than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 

VII. 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
While  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel, 
In  they  broke,  those  "  people  of  importance"  : 
Wre  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  for  ever. 

VIII. 

What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture  ? 

IX. 

This :  no  artist  lives  and  loves  that  longs  not 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 
(Ah,  the  prize !)  to  find  his  love  a  language 
Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient — 
Using  nature  that's  an  art  to  others, 
Not,  this  one  time,  art  that's  turned  his  nature. 
Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 
None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry, — - 
no 


Does  he  paint?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem, — 
Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture, 
Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 
So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist, 
Save  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 


x. 

Wherefore?     Heaven's  gift  takes   earth's  abate- 
ment ! 

He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the  water, 

Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him, 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 

Proves,  perchance,  his  mortal  in  the  minute, 

Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 

While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember, 

So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril, 

When  they  stood  and    mocked — "  Shall   smiting 
help  us  ? " 

When  they   drank   and    sneered — "  A    stroke    is 
easy ! " 

When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their 
journey, 

Throwing   him    for   thanks — "  But    drought    was 
pleasant." 

Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph  ; 
in 


Thus  the  doing  savours  of  disrelish  ; 

Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat ; 

O'er-importuned  brows  becloud  the  mandate, 

Carelessness  or  consciousness,  the  gesture. 

For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him, 

Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxtd  faces, 

Hears,     yet     one     time     more,    the     'custome'.l 

prelude — 
"  How  should'st  thou,  of  all  men,  smite,  and  save 

us?  " 

Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel — 
"  Egypt's   flesh  -  pots  —  nay,    the    drought    was 

better." 


Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  brilliance, 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat. 
Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 

XII. 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 
(Were  she  Jethro's  daughter,  white  and  wifely, 
Were  she  but  the  .'Ethiopian  bondslave,) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert ; 
112 


Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 

(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 

Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

XIII. 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 
Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 
Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me ; 
So  it  seems :  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 
This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me  ; 
Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 
Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing — 
All    the    gifts    from   all   the    heights,  your  own, 
Love ! 

XIV. 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us — 

Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must  seize 

it. 

Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly, 
Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last  time. 
He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush, 
Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 
Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little, 
Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 
Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  with  flowerets. 
He    who  blows  thro'  bronze,  may  breathe  thro' 

silver, 

H  113 


Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess, 

He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once,  as  I  do. 

xv. 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy, 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 
Speak  from  every  mouth, — the  speech,  a  poem. 
Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving : 
1  am  mine  and  yours — the  rest  be  all  men's, 
Karshook,  Cleon,  Norbert  and  the  fifty. 
Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person, 
Not  as  Lippo,  Roland  or  Andrea, 
Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sentence — 
Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 
Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished ; 
Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also ! 
Poor  the  speech  ;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all  things. 

XVI. 

Not  but    that   you    know  me !     Lo,  the    moon's 

self! 

Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured, 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  colour, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight, 
114 


Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's-breadth. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Rounder  'tvvixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder, 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished, 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  house-roofs, 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 
Goes  dispiritedly, — glad  to  finish. 

XVII. 

What,  there's  nothing  in  the  moon  note-worthy  ? 
Nay — for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal, 
Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy) 
All  her  magic  ('tis  the  old  sweet  mythos) 
She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 
Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steersman — 
Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace, 
Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret, 
Dumb  to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats — him,  even  ! 
Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mortal — 
When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven, 
Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better  ? 
Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  ice-berg 
Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders, 
Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crystals  ? 
Proves  she  as  the  paved- work  of  a  sapphire 
Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  mountain  ? 
"5 


Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu 

Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved- work  of  a  sapphire. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved-work, 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also ! 

XVIII. 

What  were  seen?     None  knows,  none  ever  shall 

know. 

Only  this  is  sure — the  sight  were  other, 
Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in  Florence, 
Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 
God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 
Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her. 


This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Love  ! 
This  to  you — yourself  my  moon  of  poets  ! 
Ah,  but  that's  the  world's  side — there's  the 

wonder — 
Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know 

you. 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you, 
Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 
But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 
116 


Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 
Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 
Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 
Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

xx. 

Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song — and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel — borne,  see,  on  my  bosom ! 
ROBERT  BROWNING. 

A  Wedding  <?•         -o         •£>         o         <o*         •&- 

OTRUE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 
Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay ; 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 
Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 

Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house  ;  nor  proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this ; 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  number' d  o'er 

Some  thrice  three  years :  they  went  and  came, 
Remade  the  blood  and  changed  the  frame, 

And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more  ; 
117 


No  longer  caring  to  embalm 

In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret, 
But  like  a  statue  solid-set, 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown, 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before  ; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes, 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 

That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes 

And  then  on  thee ;  they  meet  thy  look 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud, 

He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 

For  ever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 
118 


And  thou  art  worthy  ;  full  of  power  ; 
As  gentle  ;  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent ;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out :  the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear. 

For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 

That  watch'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 

Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead  ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on, 

The  "  wilt  thou  "  answer'd,  and  again 
The  "wilt  thou"  ask'd,  till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will"  has  made  you  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read, 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  morn, 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn  ; 

The  names  are  sign'd,  and  overhead 
119 


Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 

The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze  ; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O  happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 

Await  them.      Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them — maidens  of  the  place, 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

O  happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the  grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 

For  them  the  light  of  life  increased, 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast, 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 

To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun  ; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 

And  hearts  are  warm'd  and  faces  bloom., 
As  drinking  health  to  bride  and  groom 

We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

120 


Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest, 
Perchance,  perchance,  among  the  rest, 

And,  tho'  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on, 

And  those  white-fa vour'd  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger  ;  it  is  late  ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 

From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew, 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  look'd,  and  what  he  said, 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 

The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the  wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health, 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-times-three, 

And  last  the  dance  ; — till  I  retire  : 

Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so  loud, 
And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming  cloud, 

And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire  : 
121 


And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down, 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vapour  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills, 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head, 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and  spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills  ; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 

With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall ; 
And  breaking  let  the  splendour  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds. 

And,  moved  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 

On  knowledge  ;  under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their  hand 

Is  Nature  like  an  open  book  ; 
122 


No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did. 

And  hoped,  and  suffer' d,  is  but  seed 
Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 

TENNYSON. 


123 


BOOK   IV 
A    LITTLE    PHILOSOPHY 


125 


Truth 


BALADE   DE   BON   CONSEYL. 


FVLEE  fro  the   prees,  and  dwelle  with  soth- 
fastnesse 

Suffice  unto  thy  thyng  though  hit  be  small  ; 
For  hord  hath  hate  and  clymbyng  tikelnesse, 

Frees  hath  envye,  and  wele  blent  overal ; 
Savour  no  more  than  thee  behove  shall 

Werk  well  thyself,  that  other  folk  canst  rede. 
And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  it  is  no  drede. 

Tempest  thee  noght  al  croked  to  redresse 
In  trust  of  hir  that  turneth  as  a  bal : 

Greet  reste  stant  in  litel  besynesse ; 
An  eek  be  war  to  sporne  ageyn  an  al ; 

Stryve  noght,  as  doth  the  crokke  with  the  wal. 
Daunte  thyself,  that  dauntest  otheres  dede 
And  trouthe  shall  delivere,  it  is  no  drede. 


That  thee  is  sent,  receyve  in  buxumnesse, 
The  wrastling  for  this  worlde  axeth  a  fall. 

Her  nis  non  hoom,  her  nis  but  wildernesse. 

Forth,  pilgrim,  forth  !     Forth,  beste,  out  of  thy 
stall, 

Know  thy  contree,  look  up,  thank  God  of  al ; 
Hold  the  hye  wey,  and  lat  thy  gost  thee  lede, 
And  trouth  shall  delivere,  it  is  no  drede. 

ENVOY. 

Therfore,  thou  vache,  leve  thyn  old  wrecchednesse 

Unto  the  world  ;  leve  now  to  be  thral  ; 
Crye  him  mercy,  that  of  his  hy  goodnesse 

Made  thee  of  noght,  and  in  especial 
Draw  unto  him,  and  pray  in  general 

For  thee,  and  eek  for  other,  hevenlich  mede  ; 

And  trouthe  shall  delivere,  it  is  no  drede. 

(Explicit  Ic  ban  conseil  de  G.  Chaucer.} 

C'n  \UCER. 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life  o         -&*         *o 

HOW  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will  ; 
Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 
128 


Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 

Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath  ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise 
Nor  vice  ;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  : 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

• 
Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 

More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 

With  a  religious  book  or  friend  ; 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands  ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

SIR  H.  WOTTON. 
I  129 


A  Wish         •«£?•         -^>         -o-         o         •&•         o 

MINE  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  tar  : 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall,  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow  oft,  beneath  my  thatch, 
Shall  twitter  near  her  clay- built  nest ; 

Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 

Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew  ; 

And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing, 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village  churclj  beneath  the  trees 

Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  given, 
WTith  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze 

And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

The  World  •&•         o         o         o         o         *z> 

THE    world  is    too  much   with  us  ;  late  and 
soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  : 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours ; 
130 


We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon  ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

WORDSWORTH. 


Ulysses         o         o         o         -o         o         o 

IT  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 
By   this  still    hearth,   among    these    barren 

crags, 

Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,   and  feed,  and  know  not 

me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel :  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees  :  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'cl  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone ;  on  shore,  and  when 


Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vext  the  dim  sea  :  I  am  become  a  name  ; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known  :  cities  of  men, 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them  all ; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peer-. 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

Gleams   that    untravell'd    world,    whose    margin 

fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use  ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
132 


This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail  : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.      My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought 

with  me — 

That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old  ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 
The  long  day  wanes  :  the  slow  moon  climbs  :  the 

deep 
Moans    round    with    many   voices.       Come,    my 

friends, 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows  ;  for  my  purpose  holds 

133 


To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  : 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides  ;  and  tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven  ;  that  which  we  are,  we 

are ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

TENNYSON. 

French  Revolution  o         o         o         •&•         o 
As  it  appeared  to  enthusiasts  at  its  commencement. 

OH  !  pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy  ! 
For  mighty  were  the  auxiliars  which  then 

stood 

Upon  our  side,  we  who  were  strong  in  love ! 
Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive, 
But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven  ! — Oh  !  times 
In  which  the  meagre,  stale,  forbidding  ways 
Of  custom,  law,  and  statute,  took  at  once 
The  attraction  of  a  countr    in  romance ! 


When  Reason  seemed  the  most  to  assert  her  rights, 
When  most  intent  on  making  of  herself 
A  prime  enchantress — to  assist  the  work 
Which  then  was  going  forward  in  her  name ! 
Not  favoured  spots  alone,  but  the  whole  earth, 
The  beauty  wore  of  promise — that  which  sets 
(To  take  an  image  which  was  felt  no  doubt 
Among  the  bowers  of  paradise  itself) 
The  budding  rose  above  the  rose  full  blown. 
What  temper  at  the  prospect  did  not  wake 
To  happiness  unthought  of?     The  inert 
Were  roused,  and  lively  natures  rapt  away ! 
They  who  had  fed  their  childhood  upon  dreams, 
The  playfellows  of  fancy,  who  had  made 
All  powers  of  swiftness,  subtilty,  and  strength 
Their  ministers, — who  in  lordly  wise  had  stirred 
Among  the  grandest  objects  of  the  sense, 
And  dealt  with  whatsoever  they  found  there 
As  if  they  had  within  some  lurking  right 
To  wield  it ; — they,  too,  who  of  gentle  mood 
Had  watched  all  gentle  motions,  and  to  these 
Had  fitted  their  own   thoughts,  schemers   more 

mild, 

And  in  the  region  of  their  peaceful  selves  ; — 
Now  was  it  that  both  found,  the  meek  and  lofty 
Did  both  find  helpers  to  their  heart's  desire, 
And  stuff  at  hand,  plastic  as  they  could  wish, — 

135 


Were  called  upon  to  exercise  their  skill, 

Not  in  Utopia, — subterraneous  fields, — 

Or  some  secreted  island,  Heaven  knows  where ! 

But  in  the  very  world,  which  is  the  world 

Of  all  of  us, — the  place  where  in  the  end 

We  find  our  happiness,  or  not  at  all ! 

WORDSWORTH. 


In  Utrumque  Paratus         o         o         o         o 

IF,  in  the  silent  mind  of  One  all-pure 
At  first  imagined  lay 

The  sacred  world  ;  and  by  procession  sure 
From  those  still  deeps,  in  form  and  colour  drest, 
Seasons  alternating,  and  night  and  day, 
The  long-mused  thought  to  north,  south,  east  and 

west, 
Took  then  its  all-seen  way  ; 

O  waking  on  a  world  which  thus-wise  springs ! 

Whether  it  needs  thee  count 
Betwixt  thy  waking  and  the  birth  of  things 
A<res  or  hours — O  waking  on  life's  stream  ! 
By  lonely  pureness  to  the  all-pure  fount 
(Only  by  this  thou  canst)  the  coloured  dream 

Of  life  remount ! 

136 


Thin,  thin  the  pleasant  human  noises  gi'ow, 

And  faint  the  city  gleams  ; 
Rare  the  lone  pastoral  huts — marvel  not  thou ! 
The  solemn  peaks  but  to  the  stars  are  known, 
But  to  the  stars,  and  the  cold  lunar  beams  ; 
Alone  the  sun  arises,  and  alone 

Spring  the  great  streams. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


Fragment  from  "  The  Recluse  "    ^>         o         •&• 

ON  Man,  on  Nature,  and  on  Human  Life, 
Musing  in  solitude,  I  oft  perceive 
Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise, 
Accompanied  by  feelings  of  delight 
Pure,  or  with  no  unpleasing  sadness  mixed  ; 
And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts 
And  dear  remembrances,  w-hose  presence  soothes 
Or  elevates  the  Mind,  intent  to  weigh 
The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 
— To  these  emotions,  whencesoe'er  they  come, 
Whether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance, 
Or  from  the  Soul — an  impulse  to  herself, 
I  would  give  utterance  in  numerous  verse. 
Of  Truth,  of  Grandeur,  Beauty,  Love,  and  Hope — 
And  melancholy  Fear  subdued  by  Faith  ; 
'37 


Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress  ; 

Of  moral  strength,  and  intellectual  power  ; 

Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread  ; 

Of  the  individual  mind  that  keeps  her  own 

Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 

To  Conscience  only,  and  the  Law  supreme 

Of  that  intelligence  which  governs  all ; 

I  sing : — "fit  audience  let  me  find,  though  few  !  " 

So  prayed,  more  gaining  than  he  asked,  the  Bard, 
Holiest  of  men. — Urania,  I  shall  need 
Thy  guidance,  or  a  greater  Muse,  if  such 
Descend  to  earth  or  dwell  in  highest  heaven  ! 
For  I  must  tread  on  shadowy  ground,  must  sink 
Deep — and,  aloft  ascending,  breathe  in  worlds 
To  which  the  heaven  of  heavens  is  but  a  veil. 
All  strength — all  terror,  single  or  in  bands, 
That  ever  was  pat  forth  in  personal  form  ; 
Jehovah — with  his  thunder,  and  the  choir 
Of  shouting  Angels,  and  the  empyreal  thrones — 
I  pass  them  unalarmed.     Not  Chaos,  not 
The  darkest  pit  of  lowest  Erebus, 
Nor  aught  of  blinder  vacancy,  scooped  out 
By  help  of  dreams,  can  breed  such  fear  and  awe 
As  fall  upon  us  often  when  we  look 
Into  our  Minds,  into  the  Mind  of  Man, 
My  haunt,  and  the  main  region  of  my  song. 
138 


— Beauty — a  living  Presence  of  the  earth, 
Surpassing  the  most  fair  ideal  Forms 
Which  craft  of  delicate  Spirits  hath  composed 
From  earth's  materials — waits  upon  my  steps ; 
Pitches  her  tents  before  me  as  I  move, 
An  hourly  neighbour.     Paradise,  and  groves 
Elysian,  Fortunate  Fields — like  those  of  old 
Sought  in  the  Atlantic  Main — why  should  they  be 
A  history  only  of  departed  things, 
Or  a  mere  fiction  of  what  never  was  ? 
For  the  discerning  intellect  of  Man, 
When  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe 
In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find  these 
A  simple  produce  of  the  common  day. 
I,  long  before  the  blissful  hour  arrives, 
Would  chant,  in  lonely  peace,  the  spousal  verse 
Of  this  great  consummation  : — and,  by  words 
Which  speak  of  nothing  more  than  what  we  are, 
Would  I  arouse  the  sensual  from  their  sleep 
Of  Death,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  vain 
To  noble  raptures  ;  while  my  voice  proclaims 
How  exquisitely  the  individual  Mind 
(And  the  progressive  powers  perhaps  no  less 
Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  external  World 
Is  fitted  : — and  how  exquisitely,  too, 
Theme  this  but  little  heard  of  among  Men, 
The  external  World  is  fitted  to  the  Mind ; 
139 


And  the  creation  (by  no  lower  name 
Can  it  be  called)  which  they  with  blended  might 
Accomplish  : — this  is  our  high  argument. 
— Such  grateful  haunts  forgoing,  if  I  oft 
Must  turn  elsewhere — to  travel  near  the  tribes 
And  fellowships  of  men,  and  see  ill  sights 
Of  madding  passions  mutually  inflamed  ; 
Must  hear  Humanity  in  fields  and  groves 
Pipe  solitary  anguish  ;  or  must  hang 
Brooding  above  the  fierce  confederate  storm 
Of  sorrow,  barricadoed  evermore 
Within  the  walls  of  Cities  ;  may  these  sounds 
Have  their  authentic  comment, — that  even  these 
Hearing,  I  be  not  downcast  or  forlorn  ! 
— Descend,  prophetic  Spirit !  that  inspirest 
The  human  Soul  of  universal  earth, 
Dreaming  on  things  to  come ;  and  dost  possess 
A  metropolitan  Temple  in  the  hearts 
Of  mighty  Poets  ;  upon  me  bestow 
A  gift  of  genuine  insight ;  that  my  Song 
With  star-like  virtue  in  its  place  may  shine, 
Shedding  benignant  influence, — and  secure, 
Itself,  from  all  malevolent  effect 
Of  those  mutations  that  extend  their  sway 
Throughout  the  nether  sphere  ! — And  if  with  this 
I  mix  more  lowly  matter ;  with  the  thing 
Contemplated,  describe  the  Mind  and  Man 
140 


Contemplating,  and  who,  and  what  he  was, 

The  transitory  Being  that  beheld 

This    Vision, — when    and    where,    and    how    he 

lived  ; — 

Be  not  this  labour  useless.     If  such  theme 
May  sort  with  highest  objects,  then,  dread  Power, 
Whose  gracious  favour  is  the  primal  source 
Of  all  illumination,  may  my  Life 
Express  the  image  of  a  better  time, 
More  wise  desires,  and  simpler  manners  ; — nurse 
My  Heart  in  genuine  freedom  : — all  pure  thoughts 
Be  with  me  ;— so  shall  Thy  unfailing  love 
Guide,  and  support,  and  cheer  me  to  the  end ! 

WORDSWORTH. 


The  Struggle          o         ^         o-         *o 

SAY  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain ; 
The  enemy  faints  not  nor  faileth, 

And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

Jf  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars  ; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed, 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 


For  while  the  tired  waves  vainly  breaking 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light, 

In  front  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 

A.  H.  CLOUGH. 

Wages          -&>•         o         •&•         o         >£>         <?• 

GLORY  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of 
song, 
Paid  with  a  voice   flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an 

endless  sea — 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the 

wrong — 
Nay,  but  she  aimed  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of 

glory  she : 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death  :  if  the  wages  of  Virtue 

be  dust, 

Would  she  have  heart  to  endure    for  the  life 
of  the  worm  and  the  fly  ? 
142 


She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of 

the  just, 
To   rest   in  a   golden  grove,   or  to   bask  in  a 

summer  sky : 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 

TENNYSON. 


I  Am  the  Way 


art  the  Way. 
Hadst  Thou  been  nothing  but 

the  goal, 
I  cannot  say 
If  Thou  hadst  ever  met  my  soul. 

I  cannot  see — 
I,  child  of  process — if  there  lies 

An  end  for  me, 
Full  of  repose,  full  of  replies. 

I'll  not  reproach 
The  way  that  goes,  my  feet  that  stir. 

Access,  approach, 
Art  Thou,  time,  way,  and  wayfarer. 

ALICE  MEYNELL. 


Morality 


7 

4 


WE  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 
The  fire  which  in  the  heart  resides ; 
The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still, 
In  mystery  our  soul  abides. 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  willed 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfilled. 

With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone  ; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  'twere  done. 
Not  till  the  hours  of  light  retu^i, 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 

Then  when  the  clouds  are  oft'  the  soul, 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye, 
Ask,  how  she  viewed  thy  self-control, 
Thy  struggling,  tasked  morality — 

Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air, 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 

And  she,  whose  censure  thou  dost  dread, 

Whose  eve  thou  wast  afraid  to  seek, 

See,  on  her  face  a  glow  is  spread, 

A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek  ! 

"  Ah,  child  !  "  she  cries,  "  that  strife  divine, 
Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mine? 
144 


"  There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow — 

I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep ; 

I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres  and  glow 

In  joy,  and  when  I  will,  I  sleep. 

Yet  that  severe,  that  earnest  air, 
I  saw,  I  felt  it  once — but  where  ? 

"  I  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  time, 

Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  space  ; 

1  felt  it  in  some  other  clime, 

I  saw  it  in  some  other  place, 

'Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 
And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God." 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


The  Neophyte         o         o         <?•         o         o 

WHO  knows  what  days  I  answer  for  to-day  ? 
Giving  the  bud  I  give  the  flower.     I  bow 
This  yet  unfaded  and  a  fading  brow  ; 
Bending  these  knees  and  feeble  knees,  I  pray. 

Thoughts  yet  unripe  in  me  I  bend  one  way, 
Give  one  repose  to  pain  I  know  not  now, 
One  leaven  to  joy  that  comes,  1  guess  not  how. 

I  dedicate  my  fields  when  Spring  is  grey. 

K  145 


Oh,  rash  !  (I  smile)  to  pledge  my  hidden  wheat. 

I  fold  to-day  at  altars  far  apart 
Hands    trembling    with     what     toils?     In     their 

retreat 

I  seal  my  love  to-be,  my  folded  art. 
I  light  the  tapers  at  my  head  and  feet, 
And  lay  the  crucifix  on  this  silent  heart. 

ALICE   MEVXELL. 

Ode  to  Duty  o         *o-         o         •£>         •£> 

"Jam  non  consilio  bonus,  sed  more  eo  pcrductus,  ut  non 
tantum  recte  facere  possim,  sed  nisi  recte  facere  non 
possim." 

STERN  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  ! 
O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free ; 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
146 


Glad  Hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot ; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last ! 
But  Thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them  to 
stand  fast ! 


Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 
Yet    seek    thy    firm    support,  according   to   their 
need. 


I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust ; 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I 
may. 

147 


Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires  : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stem  Lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  Stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the   most   ancient   Heavens,  through    thee, 
are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 

I  call  thee  :   I  myself  commend 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end ! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let  me  live  ' 

WORDSWORTH. 
148 


BOOK   V 
A    JOY    FOR    EVER 


149 


A  Joy  for  Ever        o         *£>         -_>         o         o 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever : 
Its  loveliness  increases  ;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full    of    sweet    dreams,    and    health,    and    quiet 

breathing. 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 
Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkened  ways 
Made  for  our  searching :  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 
From  our  dark  spirits.      Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 
Trees  old,  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep ;  and  such  are  daffodils 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in  ;  and  clear  rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season ;  the  mid  forest  brake, 


Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms  : 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead  ; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read  : 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

KEATS. 

Auguries  of  Innocence       o         o         •*>         -&• 

TO  see  a  world  in  a  grain  of  sand, 
A  heaven  in  a  wild  flower, 
Hold  infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand 
And  eternity  in  an  hour. 

BLAKE. 

The  Daffodils          o         •&•         o         -o-         •&• 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 
A  host  of  golden  daffodils  ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 


They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 

Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : — 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company  : 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought ; 

For  oft  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

WORDSWORTH. 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn       •&•         -^>         o         •£ 


THOU  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme ; 
153 


What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?     What  maidens 

loth? 

What  mad  pursuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape  ? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?     What  wild  ecstasy  t 

n. 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though   winning   near   the    goal  —  yet,    do    not 

grieve ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 


Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 

And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 
For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 

154 


More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 

For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young  ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead  and  a  parching  tongue. 


IV. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be  ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 


v. 

O  Attic  shape  !     Fair  attitude  !   with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  over-wrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 
Thou,    silent    form,    dost     tease     us    out    of 
thought 

'55 


As  doth  eternity  :      Cold  pastoral  ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know 

KEATS. 

The  Guardian-Angel  *z>         o         o         <^» 

A    PICTURE   AT    FANO. 


DEAR   and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only 
leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for 

me ! 

Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry 
And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 
Thy  flight,  mayst  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

ii. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest   now,  to  where   I 
gaze, 

156 


And  suddenly  my  head  be  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who 

prays 

Now  on  that  tomb — and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 
Me,  out  of  all  the  world  ;  for  me,  discarding 
Yon    heaven    thy  home,  that  waits   and    opes 
its  door ! 

in. 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 

Thou  bird  of  God  !     And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 

Me,    as    thy    lamb    there,  with    thy    garments 
spread  ? 


If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 
Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 
Pressing  the   brain,  which   too  much  thought 

expands, 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 
Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  supprest. 
157 


V. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired  ! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O  world,  as  God  has  made  it !  all  is  beauty : 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared  ? 
ROBERT  BROWXINU. 


THE  MIGHTY  DEAD. 

I. 
To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture  o         -o         o 

TOUSSAINT,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 
Whether   the    whistling    rustic    tend    his 

plough 

Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den  ; 
O  miserable  chieftain  !  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?     Yet  die  not !  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow : 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again. 
Live,  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee :  air,  earth,  and 
skies : 

158 


There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee  ;  thou  hast  great  allies ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 

WORDSWORTH. 

II. 
ADONAIS. 

AN    ELEGY   ON    THE    DEATH    OF   JOHN    KEATS,    AUTHOR 
OF    "  ENDYMION,"    "HYPERION,"    ETC. 

PREFACE. 

&dpfj.a.Koi>  fjXde,  Riui>,  irorl  <rbv  ffr6fj,a,  <f>dp/j,a.KOv  fides. 
TTWS  rev  TOIS  \fi\£tf<n  woTfdpafj.e,  KOVK  ey\i>Kdvdr/  ; 
rts  5^  {Spores  TOffcrovTov  dvd/j.epos,  1)  Kepdcrai  TOI, 
i)  dovvai  \a.\toi>Ti  TO  (pdp/jLaKOv  ;  <?K<j>vyfv  yddv. 

— MOSCHUS,  Epitaph.  Bion. 

IT  is  my  intention  to  subjoin  to  the  London  edition  of  this 
poem  a  criticism  upon  the  claims  of  its  lamented  object  to 
be  classed  among  the  writers  of  the  highest  genius  who  have 
adorned  our  age.  My  known  repugnance  to  the  narrow 
principles  of  taste  on  which  several  of  his  earlier  composi- 
tions were  modelled  prove  at  least  that  I  am  an  impartial 
judge.  I  consider  the  fragment  of  Hyperion  as  second  to 
nothing  that  was  ever  produced  by  a  writer  of  the  same 
years. 

John  Keats  died  at  Rome  of  a  consumption,  in  his  twenty- 
fourth  year,  on  the of  -  —  1821  ;  and  was  buried  in 

the  romantic  and  lonely  cemetery  of  the  Protestants  in  that 
city,  under  the  pyramid  which  is  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  and 

159 


the  massy  walls  and  towers,  now  mouldering  and  desolate, 
which  formed  the  circuit  of  ancient  Rome.  The  cemetery 
is  an  open  space  among  the  ruins,  covered  in  winter  with 
violets  and  daisies.  It  might  make  one  in  love  with  death, 
to  think  that  one  should  be  buried  in  so  sweet  a  place. 

The  genius  of  the  lamented  person  to  whose  memory  I 
have  dedicated  these  unworthy  verses  was  not  less  delicate 
and  fragile  than  it  was  beautiful  ;  and  where  cankerw<>rni> 
abound,  what  wonder  if  its  young  flower  was  blighted  in 
the  bud?  The  savage  criticism  on  his  Endyntion,  which 
appeared  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  produced  the  most 
violent  effect  on  his  susceptible  mind  ;  the  agitation  thus 
originated  ended  in  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  in  the 
lungs ;  a  rapid  consumption  ensued,  and  the  succeeding 
acknowledgments  from  more  candid  critics  of  the  true 
greatness  of  his  powers  were  ineffectual  to  heal  the  wound 
thus  wantonly  inflicted. 

It  may  be  well  said  that  these  wretched  men  know  not 
what  they  do.  They  scatter  their  insults  and  their  slanders 
without  heed  as  to  whether  the  poisoned  shaft  lights  on  a 
heart  made  callous  by  many  blows  or  one  like  Keats's  com- 
posed of  more  penetrable  stuff.  One  of  their  associates  is, 
to  my  knowledge,  a  most  base  and  unprincipled  calumniator. 
As  to  Endytnion,  was  it  a  poem,  whatever  might  be  its 
defects,  to  be  treated  contemptuously  by  those  who  had 
celebrated,  with  various  degrees  of  complacency  and  pane- 
gyric, Paris,  and  Woman,  and  a  Syrian  Talc,  and  Mrs. 
Lefanu,  and  Mr.  Barrett,  and  Mr.  Howard  1'ayne,  and  a 
long  list  of  the  illustrious  obscure  ?  Are  these  the  men  who 
in  their  venal  good  nature  presumed  to  draw  a  parallel 
between  the  Rev.  Mr.  Milman  and  Lord  Byron?  What 
gnat  did  they  strain  at  here,  after  having  swallowed  all  those 
camels  ?  Against  what  woman  taken  in  adultery  dares  tne 
foremost  of  these  literary  prostitutes  to  cast  his  opprobrious 
stone?  Miserable  man!  you,  one  of  the  meanest,  have 
1 60 


wantonly  defaced  one  of  the  noblest  specimens  of  the  work- 
manship of  God.  Nor  shall  it  be  your  excuse,  that,  murderer 
as  you  are,  you  have  spoken  daggers,  but  used  none. 

The  circumstances  of  the  closing  scene  of  poor  Keats's 
life  were  not  made  known  to  me  until  the  Elegy  was  ready 
for  the  press.  I  am  given  to  understand  that  the  wound 
which  his  sensitive  spirit  had  received  from  the  criticism  of 
Endymion  was  exasperated  by  the  bitter  sense  of  unrequited 
benefits ;  the  poor  fellow  seems  to  have  been  hooted  from 
the  stage  of  life,  no  less  by  those  on  whom  he  had  wasted 
the  promise  of  his  genius,  than  those  on  whom  he  had 
lavished  his  fortune  and  his  care.  He  was  accompanied  to 
Rome,  and  attended  in  his  last  illness  by  Mr.  Severn,  a 
young  artist  of  the  highest  promise,  who,  I  have  been 
informed,  "almost  risked  his  own  life,  and  sacrificed  every 
prospect  to  unwearied  attendance  upon  his  dying  friend." 
Had  I  known  these  circumstances  before  the  completion 
of  my  poem,  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  add  my  feeble 
tribute  of  applause  to  the  more  solid  recompense  which  the 
virtuous  man  finds  in  the  recollection  of  his  own  motives. 
Mr.  Severn  can  dispense  with  a  reward  from  "such  stuff  as 
dreams  are  made  of."  His  conduct  is  a  golden  augury  of 
the  success  of  his  future  career — may  the  unextinguished 
Spirit  of  his  illustrious  friend  animate  the  creations  of  his 
pencil,  and  plead  against  Oblivion  for  his  name  ! 

ADONAIS. 


I   WEEP  for  Adonais — he  is  dead  ! 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  !   though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head  ! 
And  thoti,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
L  161 


To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow,  say :  "  With 

me 

Died  Adonais ;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity !  " 

n. 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay, 
When  thy  Son  lay,  pieiced  by  the  shaft  which 

flies 

In  darkness  ?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?     With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured  breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse 

beneath, 
He  had   adorned  and    hid    the   coming    bulk   of 

Death. 

in. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep  ! 
Yet  wherefore  ?     Quench  within  their  burning 

bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heirt  keep, 

162 


Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep ; 
For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend ; — oh,    dream   not    that    the   amorous 

Deep 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our 

despair. 

IV. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again  ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania  ! — he  died, 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,    old,    and    lonely,    when    his    country's 

pride, 

The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide, 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood  ;  he  went,  unterrified, 
Into  the  gulf  of  death  ;  but  his  clear  Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third  among  the  sons 

of  light. 

v. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb  ; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew, 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of 
time 

163 


In  which  suns  perished  ;  others  more  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  god, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road, 
Which  leads,  through   toil   and   hate,  to   Fame's 
serene  abode. 

VI. 

But    now,    thy    youngest,    dearest    one,    has 

perished — 

The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew, 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished, 
And  fed  with  true-love  tears,  instead  of  dew  ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last, 
The   bloom,  whose  petals   nipped  before  they 

blew 

Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste  ; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 


To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay, 
He  came ;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest 

breath, 

A  grave  among  the  eternal. — Come  away  ! 
164 


Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay  ; 
Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 

VIII. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place  ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain 
draw. 


Oh,  weep  for  Adonais ! — The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion-winged  Ministers  of  thought, 
Who   were  his  flocks,   whom  near   the    living 

streams 

Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain, 
165 


But   droop   there,    whence    they  sprung;    and 

mourn  their  lot 
Hound  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet 

pain, 

They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home 
again. 

x. 

And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his  cold 

head, 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and 

cries ; 

"  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead  ; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A    tear    some    Dream    has    loosened    from    his 

brain." 

Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise  ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own  ;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which   had  outwept   its 

rain. 

XI. 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew- 
Washed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming  them  ; 
Another  clipped  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 
1 66 


Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem  ; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak  ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 

XII. 

Another  Splendour  on  his  mouth  alit, 

That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the 

breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded 

wit, 

And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music  :  the  damp  death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips ; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight    vapour,   which    the   cold    night 

clips, 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  passed  to 

its  eclipse. 

XIII. 

And  others  came  .   .  .   Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendours,     and     Glooms,     and     glimmering 

Incarnations 

Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies  ; 
167 


And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 

And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 

Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 

Came  in  slow  pomp  ; — the  moving  pomp  might 

seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 

XIV. 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought, 
From  shape,  and    hue,  and   odour,  and    sweet 

sound, 

Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound, 
Wet  with  the    tears  which    should    adorn  the 

ground, 

Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day  ; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 
And  the  wild  Winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their 

dismay. 

xv. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains, 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay, 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains, 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green 
spray, 

168 


Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day ; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds  : — a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen 
heai\ 

xvr. 

Grief  made  the   young    Spring   wild,  and  she 

threw  down 

Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were, 
Or   they   dead    leaves ;    since    her    delight    is 

.flown, 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen 

year  ? 

To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais :  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth, 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears ;  odour,  to  sighing 

ruth. 


Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain  ; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
169 


Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  complain, 
Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest, 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee  :  the  curse  of  Cain 
Light  on  his    head  who  pierced  thy  innocent 

breast, 
And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was    its  earthly 

guest ! 

XVIII. 

Ah,  woe  is  me  !     Winter  is  come  and  gone, 
But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year ; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone  ; 
The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear  ; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Season's 

bier ; 

The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere  ; 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 
Like    unimprisoned    flames,   out    of  their    trance 

awake. 

XIX. 

Through  wood  and    stream  and   field  and  hill 

and  Ocean 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has 

burst 

As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
170 


God  dawned  on  Chaos  ;  in  its  stream  immersed, 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light ; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst ; 
Diffuse  themselves  ;  and  spend  in  love's  delight, 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 


The    leprous    corpse,    touched    by    this    spirit 

tender, 

Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath  ; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendour 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath  ; 
Nought  we  know,  dies.     Shall  that  alone  which 

knows 

Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By    sightless    lightning  ?  —  the    intense    atom 

glows 
A    moment,   then   is    quenched    in    a    most    cold 

repose. 

XXI. 

Alas  !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Whence  are   we,  and   why   are   we  ?    of  what 
scene 

171 


The  actors  or  spectators  ?     Great  and  mean 
Meet  massed  in    death,  who    lends    what    life 

must  borrow. 

As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening   must    usher    night,    night    urge    the 

morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and    year  wake 

year  to  sorrow. 

xxn. 

He  will  awake  110  more,  oh,  never  more ! 
"Wakethou,"  cried  Misery,  "  childless  Mother, 

rise 

Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's  core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his,  with  tears  and 

sighs." 

And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eyes, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried  :  "  Arise  !  " 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung, 
From  her   ambrosial    rest    the  fading    Splendour 

sprung. 

XXIII. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
172 


Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow  and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania  ; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist  ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 


XXIV. 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 

Through  camps    and  cities    rough  with   stone, 

and  steel, 

And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  aery  tread 
Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell : 
And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp 

than  they, 

Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel, 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like   the    young  tears  of 

May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 


XXV. 

In  the  death-chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  Life's  pale  light 
173 


Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear 

delight. 

"  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless, 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night ! 
Leave  me  not !  "  cried  Urania  :  her  distress 
Roused  Death :  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met 

her  vain  caress. 

XXVI. 

"  Stay  yet  awhile  !  speak  to  me  once  again  ; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live ; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 
That  word,  that    kiss,  shall  all    thoughts  else 

survive, 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais  !      I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and    cannot  thence 

depart ! 

XXVII. 

"  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 

Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 

Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty 

heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ? 


Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh,  where  was  then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear  ? 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  tliee 
like  deer. 

XXVIII. 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue  ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead  ; 
The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion ; — how  they 

fled, 

When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled ! — The  spoilers    tempt   no    second 

blow, 
They  fawn  on  the  proud    feet  that  spurn   them 

lying  low. 

XXIX. 

"  The    sun    comes    forth,    and    many    reptiles- 

spawn  ; 

He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again  ; 
175 


So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men  : 

A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 

Making    earth  bare    and    veiling   heaven,    and 

when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared  its 

light 
Leave    to   its    kindred    lamps    the  spirit's    awful 

night." 

xx.\. 

Thus  ceased  she :  and  the  mountain  shepherds 

came, 

Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent ; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow  ;  from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 
And  Love  taught  Grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his 
tongue. 

XXXI. 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men  ;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess, 
176 


Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Acteeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness, 
And    his   own    thoughts,    along    that    rugged 

way, 

Pursued,    like    raging   hounds,   their   father   and 
their  prey. 

XXXII. 

A  pardlike  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 

A  Love  in  desolation  masked  ; — a  Power 

Girt    round    with    weakness ; — it    can    scarce 

uplift 

The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour  ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow ; — even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?     On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly  :  on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart 
may  break. 

XXXIII. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied  and  blue  ; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy-tresses  grew 

M  177 


Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 

Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 

Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;  of  that 

crew 

He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer   struck   by  the    hunter's 

dart. 

xxxiv. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through    their   tears ;   well   knew  that 

gentle  band 

Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own, 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land 
He  sung  new  sorrow ;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The    Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured  :    '•  Who 

art  thou  ?  " 

He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or   Christ's — oh!    that  it 
should  be  so ! 

xxxv. 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead  r 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown  ? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death-bed, 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 
178 


The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  ? 
If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  departed 

one, 

Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs, 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 


XXXVI. 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh  ! 

What     deaf     and    viperous     murderer     could 

crown 

Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape,  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong, 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose   master's  hand   is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre 

unstrung. 


Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame  ! 
Live  !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be ! 
179 


And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow  : 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt — as 
now. 

XXXVIII. 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream  below  : 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. — 
Dust   to  the   dust !    but   the   pure   spirit   shall 

flow 

Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the 

same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth 

of  shame. 


Peace,  peace !    he   is   not   dead,  he  doth   not 

sleep — 

He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life — 
'Tis  we,  who  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
1 80 


And    in   mad   trance,  strike  with   our   spirit'^" 

knife 

Invulnerable  nothings. —  We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And    cold    hopes    swarm   like  worms  within  our 

living  clay. 

XL. 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 

Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 

And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 

Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again ; 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 

He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 

A    heart    grown    cold,  a  head  grown   gray  l/R, 

vain  ; 

Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 


XLI. 

He  lives,    he    wakes — 'tis   Death  is  dead, 

he; 

Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 
1*1 


Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou 

Air, 
Which    like    a    mourning    veil    thy  scarf  hadst 

thrown 

O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair  ! 

XLII. 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature :  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird  ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own ; 
Which   wields  the    world    with    never-wearied 

love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

XLIII. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely  :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling 
there, 

182 


All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  th'   unwilling  dross  that  checks  its 

flight 

To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heavens' 

light. 

XLIV. 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like    stars    to    their    appointed    height    they 

climb, 

And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.    When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And    move   like   winds    of    light    on    dark    and 

stormy  air. 

XLV. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 

Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal 

thought, 

Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale, — his  solemn  agony  had  not 
183 


Yet  faded  from  him ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose  ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved  : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 


XLVI. 

And   many  more,  whose  names  on   Earth   are 

dark, 

But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry, 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  a  Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our 
throng !  " 

XLMI. 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?     Oh,  come  forth, 
Fond  wretch  !  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp    with    thy  panting   soul    the    pendulous 

Earth ; 

As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
184 


Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference  :  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And   keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make   thee 

sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to 

the  brink. 


Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 

Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy  :   'tis  nought 

That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 

Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought ; 

For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 

Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world   their 

prey ; 

And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 

XLIX. 

Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness ; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains 

rise, 

And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
185 


The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
Pass,  till  the  spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A   light  of  laughing  flowers   along   the  grass   is 
spread ; 


And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull 

Time 

Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand  ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble  ;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of 

death, 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished 

breath. 

LI. 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as 

yet 

To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each  ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
186 


Break  it  not  thou !  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 


The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass  ; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows 

%; 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost 

seek! 

Follow  where  all  is  fled! — Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

LIII. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my 

Heart  ? 
Thy  hopes    are  gone  before :    from    all   things 

here 

They  have  departed  ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart ! 
A  light  is  passed  from  the  revolving  year, 
187 


And  man,  and  woman ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, —  the  low  wind  whispers 

near: 

Tis  Adonais  calls !  oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let   Life   divide   what   Death   can   join 

together. 

LIV. 

That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That    Beauty    in    which   all    things    work    $ul 

move, 

That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 


LV. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me  ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven, 
Far  from    the    shore,   far   from  the   trembling 

throng 

Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
188 


The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 

I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar ; 

Whilst,   burning   through    the    inmost   veil    of 

Heaven, 

The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 

SHELLEY. 

III. 
Morte  D' Arthur      o         o         o         o         o 

SO  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea  ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  Lord, 
King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
189 


They  sleep — the  men  1  loved.     I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  through  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Kxcalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride :  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  rowed  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king : 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere : 
Watch   what    thou    seest,  and    lightly  bring    me 

word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
190 


Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full, 

Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,   chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.      He,  stepping 

down 

By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.      He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw  :  but  at  the  last  it  seemed 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  concealed 
There  in  the  many- knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiif  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ? " 
191 


And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To    whom    replied     King    Arthur,    faint    and 

pale  : 

"  Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  followed,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bad  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fixed  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  : 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone  ?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
192 


Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 

An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 

The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 

Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 

And  rumours  of  a  doubt  t  but  were  this  kept, 

Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 

Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 

Upon  the  hidden  bases"  of  the  hills.' 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime   - 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 

But  now  much  honour  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily : 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
'•'  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur  much  in  wrath  : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !     Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 

N  193 


Laid  widowed  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bowed  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
1  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutched  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.     The  great 

brand 

Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an 

arch, 

Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Kxcalibur : 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
194 


And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then    spoke     King    Arthur,   drawing    thicker 

breath  : 

"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  1  looked  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard 
"  My  end  draws  nigh  ;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
'95 


Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walked,  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sighed  the  King, 
Muttering    and  murmuring    at    his  ear,   "  Quick, 

quick ! 

I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed    with    his    breath,   and    looking,    as    he 

walked, 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him,  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clanged    round   him,  as    he 

based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !   the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  duskv  bargr. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
196 


Black-stoled,    black-hooded,    like    a    dream  —  by 

these 
Three    Queens   with    crowns   of  gold — and   from 

them  rose 

A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 
Then  murmured  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three 

Queens 
Put  forth    their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and 

wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and  chafed  his 

hands, 

And  called  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with    dark    blood :    for   all   his    face    was 

white 

And  colourless,  and  like  the  withered  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dashed  with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
197 


High  from  the    dais-throne — were  parched  with 

dust ; 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mixed  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his 

lips. 

So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the  King ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  ROUND  TABLE  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge : 
"  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
198 


Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 

I    have    lived    my   life,    and    that  which   I  have 

done 

May  He  within  Himself  make  pure  !  but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again. 
Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought  by 

prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams   of.     Wherefore,  let  thy 

voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and    those   who   call    them 

friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
\Vhere  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
199 


Moved   from   the    brink,  like   some  full-breasted 

swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

TENNYSON. 


Among  the  Mountains       o         •&*         o         o 
From  "  The  Excursion." 

SO  was  he  lifted  gently  from  the  ground, 
And    with    their    freight     homeward    the 

shepherds  moved 

Through  the  dull  mist,  I  following — when  a  step, 
A  single  step,  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 
Of  the  blind  vapour,  opened  to  my  view 
Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 
By  waking  sense  or  by  the  dreaming  soul ! 
The  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed, 
Was  of  a  mighty  city,  boldly  say 
A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 
And  self-withdrawn  into  a  boundless  depth, 
Far  sinking  into  splendour — without  end  ! 

200 


Fabric  it  seemed  of  diamond  and  of  gold, 

With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver  spires, 

And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 

Uplifted  ;  here,  serene  pavilions  bright, 

In  avenues  disposed  ;  there,  towers  begirt 

With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 

Bore  stars — illumination  of  all  gems  ! 

By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 

Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 

Now  pacified ;  on  them,  and  on  the  coves 

And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 

The  vapours  had  receded,  taking  there 

Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky. 

Oh,  'twas  an  unimaginable  sight ! 

Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks  and  emerald 

turf, 

Clouds  of  all  tincture,  rocks  and  sapphire  sky, 
Confused,  commingled,  mutually  inflamed, 
Molten  together,  and  composing  thus, 
Each  lost  in  each,  that  marvellous  array 
Of  temple,  palace,  citadel,  and  huge 
Fantastic  pomp  of  structure  without  name, 
In  fleecy  folds  voluminous  enwrapped. 
Right  in  the  midst,  where  interspace  appeared 
Of  open  court,  an  object  like  a  throne 
Under  a  shining  canopy  of  state 
Stood  fixed  ;  and  fixed  resemblances  were  seen 


To  implements  of  ordinary  use, 

But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified  ; 

Such  as  by  Hebrew  Prophets  were  beheld 

In  vision — forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  power, 

For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe. 

This  little  Vale,  a  dwelling-place  of  Man, 

Lay  low  beneath  my  feet ;  twas  visible — 

I  saw  not,  but  I  felt  that  it  was  there. 

That  which  I  saw  was  the  revealed  abode 

Of  spirits  in  beatitude  :  my  heart 

Swelled   in  my   breast — "I  have  been   dead,"  I 

cried, 

"  And  now  I  live  !     Oh  !  wherefore  do  I  live  ?  " 
And  with  that  pang  I  prayed  to  be  no  more ! 

WORDSWORTH. 

Correlated  Greatness          o         •&•         o         -o 

O  NOTHING,  in  this  corporal  earth  of  man, 
That  to  the  imminent  heaven  of  his  high 

soul 

Responds  with  colour  and  with  shadow,  can 
Lack  correlated  greatness.      If  the  scroll 
Where  thoughts  lie  fast  in  spell  of  hieroglyph 
Be  mighty  through  its  mighty  habitants ; 
If  God  be  in  His  Name  ;  grave  potence  if 
The  sounds  unbind  of  hieratic  chants  ; 

202 


All's  vast  that  vastness  means.     Nay,  I  affirm 

Nature  is  whole  in  her  least  things  exprest, 

Nor  know  we  with  what  scope  God    builds  the 

worm. 

Our  towns  are  copied  fragments  from  our  breast ; 
And  all  man's  Babylons  strive  but  to  impart 
The  grandeurs  of  his  Babylonian  heart. 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 


Lines  -t>         •&•         o         o         o         o- 

COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY,  ON 
REVISITING  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  WYE  DURING  A 
TOUR. 

JULY  13,  1798. 

FIVE  years  have  past ;  five  summers,  with  the 
length 

Of  five  long  winters  !  and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 
With  a  sweet  inland  murmur.1 — Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion  ;  and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

1  The  river  is  not  affected  by  the  tides  a  few  miles  above 
Tintern. 

203 


The  clay  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These   plots   of    cottage-ground,   these   orchard- 
tufts, 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  I  see 
These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  :  these  pastoral  farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door ;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees  ! 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem, 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 
Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  Forms, 

Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration  : — feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure  :  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
204 


On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime  ;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
'  Of  all  this  unintelligible  world, 
Is  lightened  : — that  serene  and  blessed  mood. 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft, 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart, 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 
O    sylvan  Wye  !     Thou    wanderer   thro'   the 

woods, 

How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee ! 
205 


And    now,    with   gleams    of    half-extinguished 

thought, 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 
Though    changed,    no   doubt,    from  what    I    was 

when  first 

I  came  among  these  hills  ;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led :  more  like  a  man 
Flying    from    something   that    he    dreads,    than 

one 
Who    sought    the    thing    he    loved.     For   nature 

then 

(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days. 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.      The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 
206 


That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts 
Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 
Abundant  recompence.     For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth  ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.      And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  :  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I 

still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains  ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create, 
207 


And  what  perceive  ;  well  pleased  to  recognise 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  normal  being. 

Nor  perchance, 

If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 
For  thou  art  with  me,  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river  ;  thou,  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend,  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 
Mav  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister  !  and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her  ;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
208 


Our  cheerful  faith  that  all  which  we  behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee  :  and  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies  ;  oh  !  then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should     be     thy    portion,    with    what     healing 

thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 
And  these  my  exhortations  !     Nor,  perchance 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch    from  thy  wild  eyes  these 

gleams 

Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 
That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 
We  stood  together  ;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 
Unwearied  in  that  service  :  rather  say 
With  warmer  love,  oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 
O  209 


And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake ! 

WORDSWORTH. 


At  a  Solemn  Musick          ^>         o         o         o 

BLEST   pair  of  Sirens,  pledges   of  Heaven's 
joy; 

Sphere-born  harmonious  sisters,  Voice  and  Verse  ; 
Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixed  power  employ 
Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to 

pierce ; 

And  to  our  high-raised  phantasy  present 
That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concent 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-coloured  throne 
To  Him  that  sits  thereon, 
With  saintly  shout,  and  solemn  jubilee  ; 
Where  the  bright  seraphim,  in  burning  row, 
Their  loud  uplifted  angel  trumpets  blow  : 
And  the  cherubic  host,  in  thousand  quires, 
Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 
With  those  just  spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms, 
Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 
Singing  everlastingly : 

That  we  on  earth,  with  undiscording  voice, 
May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise  ; 


As  once  we  did,  till  disproportion ed  sin 
Jarred  against  Nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 
Broke  the  fair  musick  that  all  creatures  made 
To  their  great  Lord,   whose    love    their  motion 

swayed 

In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  stood 
In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 
O,  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  song, 
And  keep  in  tune  with  Heaven,  till  God  ere  long 
To  His  celestial  concert  us  unite 
To  live  with  Him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of 

light. 

MILTON. 

Abt  Vogler  •£>         o         o         o         •&•         o 

(AFTER   HE   HAS    BEEN    EXTEMPORISING    UPON   THE 
MUSICAL    INSTRUMENT    OF    HIS    INVENTION.) 

I. 

WOULD  that  the  structure  brave,  the  mani- 
fold music  I  build, 
Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their 

work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as 

when  Solomon  willed 

Annies  of  Angels   that  soar,  legions  of  demons 
that  lurk, 

211 


Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly, — alien  of  end  and  of 
aim, 

Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven-high,  hell- 
deep  removed, — 

Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the 
ineffable  Name, 

And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the 
princess  he  loved ! 


ir. 

Would    it   might    tarry    like    his,    the    beautiful 

building  of  mine, 
This    which    my    keys    in    a    crowd   pressed   and 

importuned  to  raise ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart 

now  and  now  combine, 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master 

his  praise ! 

And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge- 
down  to  hell, 
Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of 

things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me 

my  palace  well, 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether 

springs. 

212 


III. 
And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the 

excellent  minion  he  was, 
Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with 

many  a  crest. 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent 

as  glass, 
Eager  to  do  and  to  die,  yield  each  his  place  to 

the  rest : 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with 

fire, 
When    a    great    illumination    surprises   a   festal 

night — 
Outlining   round   and   round   Rome's  dome  from 

space  to  spire) 
Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride 

of  my  soul  was  in  sight. 

IV. 

In  sight !     Not  half!  for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain, 

to  match  man's  birth, 
Nature  in   turn    conceived,  obeying  an    impulse 

as  I  ; 
And   the  emulous   heaven  yearned   down,  made 

effort  to  reach  the  earth, 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion, 

to  scale  the  sky  : 


Novel  splendours  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and 

dwelt  with  mine, 
Not  a   point  nor  peak   but   found  and  fixed    its 

wandering  star ; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze :  and  they  did  not 

pale  nor  pine, 
For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no 

more  near  nor  far. 


\. 

Nay  more ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in 

the  glare  and  glow, 
Presences  plain  in  the  place ;  or,  fresh  from  the 

Protoplast, 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind 

should  blow, 
Lured  now  to  begin  and   live,  in  a  house  to  their 

liking  at  last ; 
Or   else   the   wonderful   Dead   who    have    passed 

through  the  body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old 

world  worth  their  new  ; 
What  never  had  been,  was  now  ;  what  was,  as  it 

shall  be  anon  ; 
.And  what  is, — shall   I   say,  matched  both?  for  I 

was  made  perfect  too. 
214 


VI. 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a 

wish  of  my  soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed 

visibly  forth, 
All  through  music  and   me !     For  think,  had   I 

painted  the  whole, 
Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process 

so  wonder-worth  : 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse — still,  effect 

proceeds  from  cause, 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the 

tale  is  told  ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to 

laws, 
Painter    and    poet   are    proud    in    the    artist-list 

enrolled  : — 


But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will 

that  can, 
Existent  behind  all   laws,  that  made  them  and, 

lo,  they  are  ! 
And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  a  gift  be 

allowed  to  man, 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth 

sound,  but  a  star. 

215 


Consider  it  well :  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself 

is  nought ; 
It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all 

is  said : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use!     I  mix  it  with  two  in  my 

thought ; 
And,  there  !     Ye  have  heard  and  seen  :  consider 

and  bow  the  head  ! 


Well,  it  has  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I 

reared ; 
Gone !  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that 

come  too  slow ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that 

he  feared, 
That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing 

was  to  go. 

Never  to  be  again  !     But  many  more  of  the  kind 
As    good,    nay,   better   perchance :    is    this  your 

comfort  to  me  ? 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with 

my  mind 
To  the    same,  same  self,  same  love,   same  God : 

ay,  what  was,  shall  be. 
216 


IX. 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  Thee,  the  in- 
effable Name  ? 
Builder  and  maker,   Thou,  of  houses  not   made 

with  hands  ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  Thee  who  art  ever 

the  same  ? 
Doubt  that  Thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  Thy 

power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good !     What  was, 

shall  live  as  before  ; 
The  evil   is  null,   is  nought,   is  silence  implying 

sound ; 
What  was  good,  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so 

much  good  more ; 
On   the  earth  the   broken  arcs ;    in  the  heaven, 

a  perfect  round. 


All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good 

shall  exist ; 
Not   its    semblance,   but   itself;    no    beauty,   nor 

good,  nor  power 
Whose   voice   has  gone   forth,  but  each  survives 

for  the  melodist 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
217 


The   high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for 

earth  too  hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in 

the  sky, 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the 

bard  ; 
Enough  that  He  heard  it  once :  we  shall  hear  it 

by  and  by. 


XI. 

And   what  is  our  failure    here   but    a    triumph's 

evidence 
For  the  fullness  of  the  days  ?     Have  we  withered 

or  agonised  ? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing 

might  issue  thence  ? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in,   but  that   harmony 

should  be  prized  ? 

Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 
Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal 

and  woe : 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom   He  whispers  in 

the  ear ; 
The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome,  'tis  we  musicians 

know. 

218 


XII. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me ;  silence  resumes  her 

reign : 

I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common  chord 

again, 
Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, — 

yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien 

ground, 
Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into 

the  deep ; 
Which,    hark,   I    have  dared  and    done,  for   my 

resting-place  is  found, 
The  C  Major  of  this  life :  so,  now  1  will  tiy  to 

sleep. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


219 


BOOK  VI 
OF    SUCH    AS    THESE 


221 


Introduction 


PIPING  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he  laughing  said  to  me  : 

"  Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb  !  " 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

"  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again  "  ; 
So  I  piped  :  he  wept  to  hear. 

"  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe  ; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer  !  " 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight  ; 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 
223 


And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 


A  Carol 


BLAKE. 


HE  came  all  so  still 
Where  His  mother  was 
As  dew  in  Aprill 

That  falleth  on  the  grass. 

He  came  all  so  still 

Where  His  mother  lay, 
As  dew  in  Aprill 

That  falleth  on  the  spray. 

He  came  all  so  still 

To  His  mother's  bower 
As  dew  in  Aprill 

That  falleth  on  the  flower. 

Mother  and  maiden 

Was  never  none  but  she  ! 
Well  might  such  a  lady 

God's  mother  !>«-. 

ANONYMOUS. 

224 


The  Lamb 


T      ITTLE  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 
J  _  ^     Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bid  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead  ; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright  ; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice  ? 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee  ; 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee  : 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild, 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  bv  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 

BLAKE. 


225 


It  is  a  Beauteous  Evening  o         *£>         <y         o 

IT  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free ; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  his  tranquillity  ; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea  : 
Listen !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear  child  !  dear  girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear'st  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year : 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

WORDSWORTH. 

Pippa  Passes  ^>         o         -o         o         ~G» 

NEW  YEAR'S  DAY  AT  ASOLO  IN  THE  TREVISAN. 


SCENE. — A  large,  mean,  airy  chamber.     A  girl,  PIIM'A, 
from  the  silk-mills,  springing  out  of  bed. 

AY! 

Faster  and  more  fast, 

O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  last ; 

226 


D 


Boils,  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim 
Where  spurting  and  suppvest  it  lay — 
For  not  a  froth-flake  touched  the  rim 
Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  grey 
Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away  ; 
But  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled, 
Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  supprest, 
Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 
Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed 
the  world. 

Oh,  Day,  if  I  squander  a  wavelet  of  thee, 

A  mite  of  my  twelve-hours'  treasure, 

The  least  of  thy  gazes  or  glances, 

(Be  they  grants  thou  art  bound  to,  or  gifts  above 

measure) 

One  of  thy  choices,  or  one  of  thy  chances, 
(Be  they  tasks  God  imposed  thee,  or  freaks  at  thy 

pleasure) 

— My  Day,  if  I  squander  such  labour  or  leisure, 
Then  shame  fall  on  Asolo,  mischief  on  me ! 

Thy  long  blue  solemn  hours  serenely  flowing, 
Whence  earth,  we  feel,  gets  steady  help  and  good — 
Thy  fitful  sunshine  minutes,  coming,  going, 
In  which,  earth   turns  from  work  in   gamesome 
mood — 

227 


All    shall    be   mine !     But    thou    must    treat    me 

not 

As  the  prosperous  are  treated,  those  who  live 
At  hand  here,  and  enjoy  the  higher  lot, 
In  readiness  to  take  what  thou  wilt  give, 
And  free  to  let  alone  what  thou  refusest ; 
For,  Day,  my  holiday,  if  thou  ill-usest 
Me,  who  am  only  Pippa — old-year's  sorrow, 
Cast  off  last  night,  will  come  again  to-morrow — 
Whereas,  if  thou  prove  gentle,  I  shall  borrow 
Sufficient  strength  of  thee  for  new-year's  sorrow. 
All  other  men  and  women  that  this  earth 
Belongs  to,  who  all  days  alike  possess, 
Make  general  plenty  cure  particular  dearth, 
Get  more  joy,  one  way,  if  another,  less  : 
Thou  art  my  single  day,  God  lends  to  leaven 
What  were  all  earth  else,  with  a  feel  of  heaven  ; 
Sole  light  that  helps  me  through  the  year,  thy 

sun's ! 

Try,  now !     Take  Asolo's  Four  Happiest  Ones — 
And  let  thy  morning  rain  on  that  superb 
Great  haughty  Ottima  ;  can  rain  disturb 
Her  Sebald's  homage?     All  the  while  thy  rain 
Beats  fiercest  on  her  shrub-house  window-pane, 
He  will  but  press  the  closer,  breathe  more  warm 
Against   her  cheek ;    how   should  she   mind   the 
storm  ? 

228 


And,  morning  past,  if  mid-day  shed  a  gloom 
O'er   Jules  and    Phene,  —  what   care   bride  and 

groom 

Save  for  their  dear  selves  ?     "Tis  their  marriage- 
day  ; 
And  while  they  leave  church,  and  go  home  their 

way 
Hand  clasping  hand, — within  each  breast  would 

be 

Sunbeams  and  pleasant  weather  spite  of  thee  ! 
Then,  for  another  trial,  obscure  thy  eve 
With  mist, — will  Luigi  and  his  mother  grieve— 
The  Lady  and  her  child,  unmatched,  forsooth, 
She  in  her  age,  as  Luigi  in  his  youth, 
For   true    content  ?     The    cheerful   town,   warm, 

close, 

And  safe,  the  sooner  that  thou  art  morose 
Receives  them !     And  yet  once  again,  outbreak 
In  storm  at  night  on  Monsignor,  they  make 
Such  stir  about, — whom  they  expect  from  Rome 
To  visit  Asolo,  his  brothers'  home, 
And  say  here  masses  proper  to  release 
A   soul   from   pain, — what   storm   dares  hurt   his 

peace  ? 
Calm  would  he  pray,  with  his  own  thoughts  to 

ward 

Thy  thunder  off,  nor  want  the  angels'  guard  ! 
229 


But  Pippa — just  one  such  mischance  would  spoil 

Her  day  that  lightens  the  next  twelvemonth's  toil 

At  wearisome  silk-winding,  coil  on  coil ! 

And  here  I  let  time  slip  for  nought ! 

Aha, — you  foolhardy  sunbeam — caught 

With  a  single  splash  from  my  ewer! 

You  that  would  mock  the  best  pursuer, 

Was  my  basin  over-deep  ? 

One  splash  of  water  ruins  you  asleep, 

And  up,  up,  fleet  your  brilliant  bits 

Wheeling  and  counterwheeling, 

Reeling,  broken  beyond  healing — 

Now  grow  together  on  the  ceiling ! 

That  will  task  your  wits  ! 

Whoever  quenched  fire  first,  hoped  to  see 

Morsel  after  morsel  flee 

As  merrily,  as  giddily  .   .  . 

Meantime,  what  lights  my  sunbeam  on, 

Where  settles  by  degrees  the  radiant  cripple  ? 

Oh,  is  it  surely  blown,  my  martagon  ? 

New-blown  and  ruddy  as  St.  Agnes'  nipple, 

Plump  as  the   flesh-bunch   on  some  Turk  bird's 

poll! 

Be  sure  if  corals,  branching  'neath  the  ripple 
Of  ocean,  bud  there, — fairies  watch  unroll 
Such  turban-flowers  ;  I  say,  such  lamps  disperse 
Thick  red  flame  through  that  dusk  green  universe  ! 
230 


I  am  queen  of  thee,  floweret ; 

And  each  fleshy  blossom 

Preserve  I  not — (safer 

Than  leaves  that  embower  it, 

Or  shells  that  embosom) 

— From  weevil  and  chafer? 

Laugh  through  my  pane,  then  ;  solicit  the  bee  ; 

Gibe  him,  be  sure  ;  and,  in  midst  of  thy  glee, 

Love  thy  queen,  worship  me  ! 

— Worship  whom  else  ?     For  am  I  not,  this  day, 
Whate'er  I  please  ?     What  shall  I  please  to-day  ? 
My  morning,  noon,  eve,  night — how   spend    my 

day  ? 

To-morrow  I  must  be  Pippa  who  winds  silk, 
The  whole  year  round,  to  earn  just  bread  and 

milk : 

But,  this  one  day,  I  have  leave  to  go, 
And  play  out  my  fancy's  fullest  games ; 
I  may  fancy  all  day — and  it  shall  be  so — 
That  I  taste  of  the  pleasures,  am  called  by  the 

names 
Of  the  Happiest  Four  in  our  Asolo  ! 

See!       Up   the    Hill-side    yonder,   through    the 

morning, 

Some  one  shall  love  me,  as  the  world  calls  love : 
231 


I  am  no  less  than  Ottima,  take  warning! 

The  gardens,  and  the  great  stone  house  above, 

And  other  house  for  shrubs,  all  glass  in  front, 

Are  mine ;  where  Sebald  steals,  as  he  is  wont, 

To  court  me,  while  old  Luca  yet  reposes  ; 

And  therefore,  till  the  shrub-house  door  uncloses, 

I  ...  what,    now  ?  —  give    abundant    cause    for 

prate 

About  me — Ottima,  I  mean — of  late, 
Too  bold,  too  confident  she'll  still  face  down 
The  spitefullest  of  talkers  in  our  town — 
How  we  talk  in  the  little  town  below ! 
But    love,    love,    love  —  there's    better    love,    I 

know ! 

This  foolish  love  was  only  day's  first  offer ; 
I  choose  my  next  love  to  defy  the  scoffer : 
For  do  not  our  Bride  and  Bridegroom  sally 
Out  of  Possagno  church  at  noon  ? 
Their  house  looks  over  Orcana  valley — 
Why  should  I  not  be  the  bride  as  soon 
As  Ottima  ?     For  I  saw,  beside, 
Arrive  last  night  that  little  bride — 
Saw,  if  you  call  it  seeing  her,  one  flash 
Of  the  pale,  snow- pure  cheek  and  black  bright 

tresses, 

Blacker  than  all  except  the  black  eyelash  : 
I  wonder  she  contrives  those  lids  no  dresses  ! 
232 


— So  strict  was  she,  the  veil 
Should  cover  close  her  pale 
Pure  cheeks — a  bride  to  look  at  and  scarce 

touch, 
Scarce    touch,    remember,    Jules ! — for    are    not 

such 

L'sed  to  be  tended,  flower-like,  every  feature, 
As  if  one's  breath  would  fray  the  lily  of  a  ci'eature? 
A  soft  and  easy  life  these  ladies  lead  ! 
Whiteness  in  us  were  wonderful  indeed — 
Oh,  save  that  brow  its  virgin  dimness, 
Keep  that  foot  its  lady  primness, 
Let  those  ancles  never  swerve 
From  their  exquisite  reserve, 
Yet  have  to  trip  along  the  streets  like  me, 
All  but  naked  to  the  knee ! 
How  will  she  ever  grant  her  Jules  a  bliss 
So  startling  as  her  real  first  infant  kiss  ? 
Oh,  no — not  envy,  this  ! 

— Not  envy,  sure  ! — for  if  you  gave  me 

Leave  to  take  or  to  refuse, 

In  earnest,  do  you  think  I'd  choose 

That  sort  of  new  love  to  enslave  me  t 

Mine    should    have    lapped    me   round  from   the 

beginning ; 

As  little  fear  of  losing  it  as  winning  ! 
233 


Lovers    grow    cold,    men    learn    to    hate    their 

wives, 

And  only  parents'  love  can  last  our  lives : 
At  eve  the  son  and  mother,  gentle  pair, 
Commune  inside  our  Turret ;  what  prevents 
My  being  Luigi  ?  while  that  mossy  lair 
Of  lizards  through  the  winter-time,  is  stirred 
With  each  to  each  imparting  sweet  intents 
For  this  new-year,  as  brooding  bird  to  bird — 
(For  I  observe  of  late,  the  evening  walk 
Of  Luigi  and  his  mother,  always  ends 
Inside  our  ruined  turret,  where  they  talk, 
Calmer  than  lovers,  yet  more  kind  than  friends) 
Let  me  be  cared  about,  kept  out  of  harm, 
And  schemed  for,  safe  in  love  as  with  a  charm ; 
Let  me  be  Luigi !   ...   If  I  only  knew 
What  was  my  mother's  face — my  father,  too ! 
Nay,  if  you  come  to  that,  best  love  of  all 
Is  God's ;  then  why  not  have  God's  love  befall 
Myself  as,  in  the  Palace  by  the  Dome, 
Monsignor  ? — who  to-night  will  bless  the  home 
Of  his   dead    brother ;    and    God    will    bless    in 

turn 
That  heart  which  beats,  those  eyes  which  mildly 

burn 

With  love  for  all  men  :  I,  to-night  at  least, 
Would  be  that  holy  and  beloved  priest ! 
234 


Now  wait ! — even  I  already  seem  to  share 

In    God's    love  :    what    does     New-year's    hymn 

declare  ? 
What  other  meaning  do  these  vei'ses  bear  ? 

All  service  ranks  the  same  trith  God  : 

If  now,  tu  formerly  He  trod 

Paradise,  His  presence  .fills 

Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  wills 

Can  work — God's  puppets,  best  and  worst, 

Are  we  ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

Saij  >/of  "  a  small  event  !  "      Why  "small"  ? 
Costs  it  more  pain  that  this,  ye  call 
A  "great  event,"  should  come  to  pass, 
Than  that  ?      Untwine  me  from  the  mass, 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life,  one  deed 
Power  shall  fall  short  in,  or  exceed  ! 

And  more  of  it,  and  more  of  it ! — oh,  yes — 

I  will  pass  by,  and  see  their  happiness, 

And  envy  none — being  just  as  great,  no  doubt, 

Useful  to  men,  and  dear  to  God,  as  they ! 

A  pretty  thing  to  care  about 

So  mightily,  this  single  holiday  ! 

But  let  the  sun  shine !     Wherefore  repine? 

— With  thee  to  lead  me,  O  Day  of  mine, 

Down  the  grass-path  grey  with  dew, 

235 


Under  the  pine-wood,  blind  with  boughs, 
Where  the  swallow  never  flew 
As  yet,  nor  cicale  dared  carouse — 
Dared  carouse ! 

[She  oilers  tlic  street. 

I. — MORNING.  Up  the  Hill-aide,  inside  I/it-  Shrufi- 
hotise.  LUCA'S  /('//(-,  OTTIMA,  and  her  Par- 
amour, the  German  SEBALD. 

Sehald  (sings). 

Let  the  watching  lids  irink  ! 
Day's  a-bla~e  irith  eyes,  think — 
Deep  into  the  night,  drink  ! 
Ottima.  Night  ?     Such  may  be  your  Rhine-land 

nights,  perhaps ; 
But  this  blood-red   beam  through    the   shutter's 

chink, 

— We  call  such  light,  the  morning's :  let  us  see  ! 
Mind    how  you  grope  your  way,  though  !      How 

these  tall 

Naked  geraniums  straggle  !     Push  the  lattice — 
Behind  that  frame  ! — Nay,  do  I  bid  you  ? — Sebald, 
It    shakes    the    dust    down    on    me  !     Why,    of 

course 

The  slide-bolt  catches. — Well,  are  you  content, 
Or  must  I  find  you  something  else  to  spoil  ? 
236 


Kiss    and     be    friends,    my   Sebald  !     Is    it    full 

morning  ? 
Oh,  don't  speak  then! 

Sebald.  Ay,  thus  it  used  to  be  ! 

Ever  your  house  was,  I  remember,  shut 
Till  mid-day — 1  observed  that,  as  I  strolled 
On  mornings  thro'  the  vale  here :  country  girls 
Were  noisy,  washing  garments  in  the  brook — 
Hinds  drove  the  slow  white  oxen  up  the  hills — 
But    no,  your   house    was    mute,    would    ope   no 

eye — 

And  wisely — you  were  plotting  one  thing  there, 
Nature,  another  outside  :  I  looked  up — - 
Rough  white  wood  shutters,  rusty  iron  bars, 
Silent  as  death,  blind  in  a  flood  of  light ; 
Oh,  I  remember ! — and  the  peasants  laughed 
And  said,  "  The  old  man  sleeps  with  the  young 

wife !  " 

This  house  was  his,  this  chair,  this  window — his  ! 
Oltima.  Ah,  the  clear  morning !     I  can  see  St. 

Mark's : 

That  black  streak  is  the  belfry.     Stop  :  Vicenza 
Should  lie  ...  There's  Padua,  plain  enough,  that 

blue! 
Look  o'er  my  shoulder — follow  my  finger — 

Sebald.  Morning  ? 

It  seems  to  me  a  night  with  a  sun  added : 
237 


Where's  dew?  where's  freshness?     That 

plant,  I  bruised 

In  getting  thro'  the  lattice  yestereve, 
Droops  as  it  did.     See,  here's  my  elbow's  mark 
In  the  dust  on  the  sill. 

Ottima.  Oh,  shut  the  lattice,  pray  ! 

Schald.   Let  me  lean  out.     I  cannot  scent  blood 

here, 
Foul  as  the  morn  may  be — 

There,  shut  the  world  out ! 
How  do  you  feel  now,  Ottima  ?     There — curse 
The  world,  and  all  outside !     Let  us  throw  off 
This  mask:     how    do  you  bear    yourself?     Let's 

out 
With  all  of  it ! 

Ottima.  Best  never  speak  of  it. 

Sebald.  Best  speak  again  and  yet  again  of  it, 
Till  words  cease  to  be  more  than  words.     "  His 

blood," 
For   instance — let    those  two  words   mean   "  His 

blood  " 

And  nothing  more.     Notice — I'll  say  them  now, 
"  His  blood." 

Oltima.  Assuredly  if  I  repented 

The  deed — 

Sfhald.       Repent  ?  who  should  repent,  or  why  '' 
What  puts  that  in  your  head  ?     Did  I  once  say 
238 


That  I  repented  ? 

Ottima.  No — I  said  the  deed — 

Sebald.  "The  deed/'   and    "the    event," — just 

now  it  was 

"  Our  passion's  fruit  " — the  devil  take  such  cant ! 
Say,  once  and  always,  Luca  was  a  wittol, 
I  am  his  cut-throat,  you  are — 

Ottima.  Here  is  the  wine — 

I  brought  it  when  we  left  the  house  above — 
And    glasses    too — wine    of  both    sorts.     Black  ? 
white,  then  ? 

Sebald.  But  am  not   I   his   cut-throat  ?     What 
are  you  ? 

Ottima.  There,  trudges  on  his  business  from  the 

Duomo 

Benet  the  Capuchin,  with  his  brown  hood 
And  bare  feet — always  in  one  place  at  church, 
Close  under  the  stone  wall  by  the  south  entry ; 
I  used  to  take  him  for  a  brown  cold  piece 
Of  the  wall's  self,  as  out  of  it  he  rose 
To  let  me  pass — at  first,  I  say,  I  used — 
Now — so  has  that  dumb  figure  fastened  on  me — 
I  rather  should  account  the  plastered  wall 
A  piece  of  him,  so  chilly  does  it  strike. 
This,  Sebald  ? 

Sebald.  No — the  white  wine — the  white  wine  I 
Well,  Ottima,  I  promised  no  new  year 

239 


Should  rise  on  us  the  ancient  shameful  way, 
Nor  does  it  rise  :  pour  on  !     To  your  black  eyes  ! 
Do  you  remember  last  damned  New  Year's  day  .- 

OttiniH.  You  brought  those  foreign  prints.     We 

looked  at  them 

Over  the  wine  and  fruit.      I  had  to  scheme 
To  get  him  from  the  fire.     Nothing  but  saying 
His  own  set  wants  the  proof-mark,  roused  him  up 
To  hunt  them  out. 

Sebald.  'Faith,  he  is  not  alive 

To  fondle  you  before  my  face ! 

Ottlma.  Do  you 

Fondle  me,  then !  who  means  to  take  your  life 
For  that,  my  Sebald  ? 

Sebald.  Hark  you,  Ottima, 

One   thing's  to  guard  against.     We'll  not  make 

much 

One  of  the  other — that  is,  not  make  more 
Parade  of  warmth,  childish  officious  coil, 
Than  yesterday — as  if,  sweet,  I  supposed 
Proof  upon  proof  was  needed  now,  now  first, 
To  show  I  love  you — yes,  still  love  you — love  you 
In  spite  of  Luca  and  what's  come  to  him 
— Sure  sign  we  had  him  ever  in  our  thought-;, 
White  sneering  old  reproachful  face  and  all ! 
We'll  even  quarrel,  love,  at  times,  as  if 
We  still  could  lose  each  other — were  not  tied 
240 


By  this — conceive  you  ? 

Ottima.  Love — 

Sebald.  Not  tied  so  sure — 

Because  tho'  I  was  wrought  upon — have  struck 
His  insolence  back  into  him — am  I 
So  surely  yours  ? — therefore,  forever  yours  ? 

Ottima.   Love,    to   be   wise,  (one  counsel  pays 

another) 
Should    we    have — months   ago — when    first   we 

loved, 

For  instance  that  May  morning  we  two  stole 
Under  the  green  ascent  of  sycamores — 
If  we  had  come  upon  a  thing  like  that 
Suddenly — 

Scbald.          "  A    thing  "...  there  again — "  a 
thing !  " 

Ottima.  Then,  Venus'  body,  had  we  come  upon 
My  husband  Luca  Gaddi's  murdered  corpse 
Within  there,  at  his  couch-foot,  covered  close — 
Would  you  have  pored  upon  it  ?     Why  persist 
In  poring  now  upon  it  ?     For  'tis  here — 
As  much  as  there  in  the  deserted  house — 
You  cannot  rid  your  eyes  of  it :  for  me, 
Now  he  is  dead  I  hate  him  worse — I  hate — 
Dare  you  stay  here  ?     I  would  go  back  and  hold 
His  two  dead  hands,  and  say,  I  hate  you  worse 
Luca,  than — 

Q  241 


SebaUI.  Off,  off  ;  take  your  hands  off  mine  ! 
Tis  the  hot  evening — off !  oh,  morning,  is  it ': 
Ottivia.  There's  one  thing  must  be  done — you 

know  what  thing. 

Come  in  and  help  to  carry.     We  may  sleep 
Anywhere  in  the  whole  wide  house  to-night. 
Sebald.  What  would  come,  think  you,  if  we  let 

him  lie 

Just  as  he  is  ?     Let  him  lie  there  until 
The  angels  take  him :  he  is  turned  by  this 
Off  from  his  face,  beside,  as  you  will  see. 

Ottima.  This  dusty  pane  might  serve  for  look- 
ing-glass. 

Three,  four — four  grey  hairs  !     Is  it  so  you  said 
A  plait  of  hair  should  wave  across  my  neck  ? 
No — this  way ! 

Sebald.  Ottima,  I  would  give  your  neck, 

Each  splendid  shoulder,   both  those   breasts    of 

yours, 
That    this    were    undone!      Killing?  —  Kill    the 

world 

So  Luca  lives  again  ! — Ay,  lives  to  sputter 
His  fulsome  dotage  on  you — yes,  and  feign 
Surprise  that  I  returned  at  eve  to  sup, 
When  all  the  morning  I  was  loitering  here — 
Bid  me  dispatch  my  business  and  begone. 
I  would  — 

242 


Ottima.       See ! 

Sebald.  Xo,  I'll  finish  !     Do  you  think 

I  fear  to  speak  the  bare  truth  once  for  all  ? 
All  we  have  talked  of  is,  at  bottom,  fine 
To  suffer — there's  a  recompense  in  guilt ; 
One  must  be  venturous  and  fortunate — 
What  is  one  young  for,  else  ?     In  age  we'll  sigh 
O'er  the  wild,  reckless,  wicked  days  flown  over ; 
Still  we  have  lived !     The  vice  was  in  its  place. 
But  to  have  eaten  Luca's  bread,  have  wrorn 
His  clothes,  have  felt  his  money  swell  my  purse — 
Do  lovers  in  romances  sin  that  way  ? 
Why,  I  was  starving  when  I  used  to  call 
And  teach  you  music — starving  while  you  plucked 

me 
These  flowers  to  smell ! 

Ottima.  My  poor  lost  friend  ! 

Sebald.  He  gave  me 

Life — nothing  less  :  what  if  he  did  reproach 
My  perfidy,  and  threaten,  and  do  more — 
Had  he  no  right  ?     What  was  to  wonder  at  ? 
He  sate  by  us  at  table  quietly — 
Why  must  you  lean  across  till  our  cheeks  touch'd  ? 
Could   he   do  less  than  make  pretence  to  strike 

me  ? 

'Tis  not  for    the    crime's   sake — I'd  commit  ten 
crimes 

243 


Greater  to  have  this  crime  wiped  out — undone  ! 
And  you — O,  how  feel  you  ?  feel  you  for  me  ? 

Ottima.   Well,  then — I  love  you  better  now  than 

ever — 

And  best  (look  at  me  while  I  speak  to  you) — 
Best  for  the  crime — nor  do  I  grieve,  in  truth, 
This  mask,  this  simulated  ignorance, 
This  affectation  of  simplicity, 
Falls  off  our  crime  ;  this  naked  crime  of  ours 
May  not,  now,   be  looked    over — look    it   down, 

then! 

Great  ?  let  it  be  great — but  the  joys  it  brought, 
Pay  they  or  no  its  price  ?     Come — they  or  it ! 
Speak  not !     The  past,  would  you  give  up  the  past 
Such  as  it  is,  pleasure  and  crime  together  ? 
Give  up  that  noon  I  owned  my  love  for  you — 
The  garden's  silence — even  the  single  bee 
Persisting  in  his  toil,  suddenly  stopt 
And  where  he  hid  you  only  could  surmise 
By  some  campanula's  chalice  set  a-swing 
As  he  clung  there — "  Yes,  I  love  you  !  " 

Sebald.  And  I  drew 

Back  ;  put  far  back  your  face  with  both  my  hands 
Lest  you  should  grow  too  full  of  me — your  face 
So  seemed  athirst  for  my  whole  soul  and  body ! 

Ottima.   And  when  I  ventured  to   receive  you 
here, 

244 


Made  you  steal  hither  in  the  mornings — 

Sebald.  When 

I  used  to  look  up  'neath  the  shrub-house  here, 
Till  the  red  fire  on  its  glazed  windows  spread 
To  a  yellow  haze  ? 

Ottima.  Ah — my  sign  was,  the  sun 

Inflamed  the  sere  side  of  yon  chestnut  tree 
Nipt  by  the  first  frost. 

Sebald.  You  would  always  laugh 

At  my  wet  boots — I  had  to  stride  thro'  grass 
Over  my  ancles. 

Ottima.  Then  our  crowning  night — 

Sebald.  The  July  night  ? 

Ottima.  The  day  of  it  too,  Sebald  ! 

When  the  heaven's  pillars  seemed  o'erbowed  with 

heat, 

Its  black-blue  canopy  seemed  let  descend 
Close  on  us  both,  to  weigh  down  each  to  each, 
And  smother  up  all  life  except  our  life. 
So  lay  we  till  the  storm  came. 

Sebald.  How  it  came  ! 

Ottima.  Buried  in  woods  we  lay,  you  recollect ; 
Swift  ran  the  searching  tempest  overhead ; 
And  ever  and  anon  some  bright  white  shaft 
Burnt  thro'  the  pine-tree  roof — here  burnt  and 

there, 
As  if  God's  messenger  thro'  the  close  wood  screen 

245 


Plunged  and  replunged  his  weapon  at  a  venture, 
Feeling  for  guilty  thee  and  me :  then  broke 
The  thunder  like  a  whole  sea  overhead — 

Sebald.  Yes ! 

Ottima.  —While  I  stretched  myself  upon 

you,  hands 

To  hands,  my  mouth  to  your  hot  mouth,  and  shook 
All  my  locks  loose,  and  covered  you  with  them — 
You,  Sebald,  the  same  you — 

Sebald.  Slower,  Ottima — 

Oltima.  And  as  we  lay — 

Sebald.  Less  vehemently  !     Love  me — 

Forgive   me — take    not    words — mere    words — to 

heart — 
Your  breath  is  worse  than  wine !     Breathe  slow, 

speak  slow — 
Do  not  lean  on  me — 

Ottima.  Sebald  as  we  lay, 

Rising  and  falling  only  with  our  pants, 
Who  said,  "  Let  death  come  now — 'tis  right  to  die  ! 
Right   to   be  punished — nought    completes    such 

bliss 
But  woe  !  "     Who  said  that  ? 

Sebald.  How  did  we  ever  rise  ? 

W'as't  that  we  slept?     Why  did  it  end? 

Ottima.  I  felt  you, 

Fresh  tapering  to  a  point  the  ruffled  ends 
246 


Of  my  loose  locks  'twixt  both  your  humid  lips — 
(My  hair  is  fallen  now — knot  it  again  !) 
Sebald.   I  kiss  you  now,  clear  Ottima,  now,  and  now ! 
This  way  ?     Will  you  forgive  me — be  once  more 
My  great  Queen  ? 

Ottima.  Bind  it  thrice  about  my  brow  ; 

Crown  me  your  queen,  your  spirit's  arbitress, 
Magnificent  in  sin.     Say  that ! 

Sebald.  I  crown  you 

My  great  white  queen,  my  spirit's  arbitress, 
Magnificent — 

\From    without    is  heard  the   voice  of  PIPPA, 
singing — 

The  year's  at  the  spring, 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven  ; 
The  kill-side's  deiv-pearled : 
The  lark's  on  the  wing  ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn  ; 
God's  in  His  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world  ! 

[ PIPPA  passes. 

Sebald.    God's  in  His  heaven  ?      Do  you   hear 

that }     Who  spoke  ? 
You,  you  spoke ! 

Ottima.  Oh — that  little  ragged  girl ! 

247 


She  must  have  rested  on  the  step — we  give  them 
But  this  one  holiday  the  whole  year  round. 
Did  you  ever  see  our  silk-mills — their  inside  ? 
There  are  ten  silk-milks  now  belong  to  you. 
She  stoops  to  pick  my  double  heartsease  .  .   .   Sli ! 
She  does  not  hear — you  call  out  louder ! 

Sebald.  Leave  me ! 

Go,  get  your  clothes  on — dress  those  shoulders  ! 

Ottima.  Sebald  ? 

Sebald.  Wipe  off  that  paint.      I  hate  you  ! 

Ottima.  Miserable ! 

Sebald.   My  God  !  and  she  is  emptied  of  it  now  ! 
Outright  now  ! — how  miraculously  gone 
All    of    the    grace — had    she   not  strange   grace 

once? 

Why,  the  blank  cheek  hangs  listless  as  it  likes, 
No  purpose  holds  the  features  up  together, 
Only  the  cloven  brow  and  puckered  chin 
Stay  in  their  places — and  the  very  hair, 
That  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  life  in  it, 
Drops,  a  dead  web  ! 

Ottima.  Speak  to  me — speak  not  of  me  ! 

Sebald.    — That    round    great    full-orbed    face, 

where  not  an  angle 
Broke  the  delicious  indolence — all  broken  ! 

Ottima.  To  me — not  of  me  ! — ungrateful,  per- 
jured cheat — 

248 


A  coward,  too — but  ingrate's  worse  than  all ! 
Beggar — my  slave — a  fawning,  cringing  lie  ! 
Leave  me  ! — betray  me  ! — I  can  see  your  drift — 
A  lie  that  walks,  and  eats,  and  drinks ! 

Sebald.  My  God ! 

Those  morbid,  olive,  faultless  shoulder-blades — 
I  should  have  known  there  was  no  blood  beneath  ! 
Ottima.  You  hate    me,  then  ?      You    hate    me, 

then  ? 

Sebald.  To  think 

She  would  succeed  in  her  absurd  attempt, 
And  fascinate  by  sinning  ;  and  show  herself 
Superior — Guilt  from  its  excess,  superior 
To  Innocence.     That  little  peasant's  voice 
Has  righted  all  again.     Though  I  be  lost, 
I  know  which  is  the  better,  never  fear, 
Of  vice  or  virtue,  purity  or  lust, 
Nature,  or  trick — I  see  what  I  have  done, 
Entirely  now !     Oh,  I  am  proud  to  feel 
Such  torments — let  the  world  take  credit  thence — 
I,  having  done  my  deed,  pay  too  its  price ! 
I  hate,  hate — curse  you !     God's  in  His  heaven  ! 

Ottima.  —Me ! 

Me  !  no,  no,  Sebald — not  yourself — kill  me  ! 
Mine  is  the  whole  crime — do  but  kill  me — then 
Yourself — then — presently — first  hear  me  speak — 
I  always  meant  to  kill  myself — wait,  you ! 
249 


Lean  on  my  breast — not  as  a  breast ;  don't  love 

me 

The  more  because  you  lean  on  me,  my  own 
Heart's    Sebald  !      There  —  there — both    deaths 

presently ! 
Xebald.    My    brain    is    drowned    now  —  quite 

drowned  :  all  I  feel 
Is  ...  is  at  swift -recurring  intervals, 
A  hurrying-down  within  me,  as  of  waters 
Loosened  to  smother  up  some  ghastly  pit — 
There  they  go — whirls  from  a  black,  fiery  sea ! 
Ottima.  Not  to  me,  God — to  him  be  merciful! 

Talk  by  the  way,  while  PIPPA  /*  passing  from  the 
Hill-side  to  Orcana.  Foreign  Student.1;  of  paint- 
ing and  sculpture,  from  Venice,  assembled  op- 
posite the  house  of  JULES,  a  young  French 
statuary. 

I  si  Student.  Attention  !  my  own  post  is  beneath 
this  window,  but  the  pomegranate  clump  yonder 
will  hide  three  or  four  of  you  with  a  little 
squeezing,  and  Schramm  and  his  pipe  must  lie 
flat  in  the  balcony.  Four,  five — who's  a  de- 
faulter ?  We  want  everybody,  for  Jules  must 
not  be  suffered  to  hurt  his  bride  when  the  jest's 
found  out. 

250 


2nd  Student.  All  here !  Only  our  poet's  away 
— never  having  much  meant  to  be  present, 
moonstrike  him !  The  airs  of  that  fellow,  that 
Giovacchino !  He  was  in  violent  love  with 
himself,  and  had  a  fair  prospect  of  thriving  in 
his  suit,  so  unmolested  was  it, — when  suddenly 
a  woman  falls  in  love  with  him,  too ;  and  out 
of  pure  jealousy  he  takes  himself  off  to  Trieste, 
immortal  poem  and  all — whereto  is  this  pro- 
phetical epitaph  appended  already,  as  Bluphocks 
assures  me — "  Here  a  mammoth-poem  lies, — Fouled 
to  death  by  butterflies."  His  own  fault,  the 
simpleton  !  Instead  of  cramp  couplets,  each  like 
a  knife  in  your  entrails,  he  should  write,  says 
Bluphocks,  both  classically  and  intelligibly. — 
JEsculapius,  an  Epic.  Catalogue  of  the  dnigs  : 
Hebe's  plaister — One  strip  Cools  your  lip.  Phoebus' 
emulsion — One  bottle  Clears  your  throttle.  Mercury's 
bolus— One  box  Cures.  .  .  . 

3rd  Student.  Subside,  my  fine  fellow !  If  the 
marriage  was  over  by  ten  o'clock,  Jules  will 
certainly  be  here  in  a  minute  with  his  bride. 

2nd  Student.  Good  ! — Only,  so  should  the  poet's 
muse  have  been  universally  acceptable,  says 
Bluphocks,  et  canibus  nostris  .  .  .  and  Delia  not 
better  known  to  our  literary  dogs  than  the  boy — 
Giovacchino ! 

251 


l.v/  Student.  To  the  point,  now.  Where's 
Gottlieb,  the  new-comer?  Oh, — listen,  Gottlieb, 
to  what  has  called  down  this  piece  of  friendly 
vengeance  on  Jules,  of  which  we  now  assemble 
to  witness  the  winding-up.  We  are  all  agreed, 
all  in  a  tale,  observe,  when  Jules  shall  burst  out 
on  us  in  a  fury  by  and  by :  I  am  spokesman — 
the  verses  that  are  to  undeceive  Jules  bear  my 
name  of  Lutwyche — but  each  professes  himself 
alike  insulted  by  this  strutting  stone-squarer, 
who  came  singly  from  Paris  to  Munich,  and 
thence  with  a  crowd  of  us  to  Venice  and 
Possagno  here,  but  proceeds  in  a  day  or  two 
alone  again — oh,  alone,  indubitably  ! — to  Rome 
and  Florence.  He,  forsooth,  take  up  his  por- 
tion with  these  dissolute,  brutalised,  heartless 
bunglers! — So  he  was  heard  to  call  us  all:  now 
is  Schramm  brutalised,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 
Am  I  heartless  ? 

Gottlieb.  Why,  somewhat  heartless  ;  for,  suppose 
Jules  a  coxcomb  as  much  as  you  choose,  still,  for 
this  mere  coxcombry,  you  will  have  brushed  off — 
what  do  folks  style  it  ? — the  bloom  of  his  life. 
Is  it  too  late  to  alter?  These  love-letters,  now, 
you  call  his  ...  I  can't  laugh  at  them. 

4-th  Student.  Because  you  never  read  the  sham 
letters  of  our  inditing  which  drew  forth  these. 
252 


Gottlieb.  His  discovery  of  the  truth  will  be 
frightful. 

4<th  Student.  That's  the  joke.  But  you  should 
have  joined  us  at  the  beginning :  there's  no 
doubt  he  loves  the  girl — loves  a  model  he  might 
hire  by  the  hour  ! 

Gottlieb.  See  here !  "  He  has  been  ac- 
customed/' he  writes,  "  to  have  Canova's  women 
about  him,  in  stone,  and  the  world's  women 
beside  him,  in  flesh ;  these  being  as  much  below, 
as  those,  above — his  soul's  aspiration :  but  now 
he  is  to  have  the  real."  .  .  .  There  you  laugh 
again !  I  say,  you  wipe  off  the  very  dew  of  his 
youth. 

1st  Student.  Schramm ! — (Take  the  pipe  out  ot 
his  mouth,  somebody) — Will  Jules  lose  the  bloom 
of  his  youth  ? 

Schramm.  Nothing  worth  keeping  is  ever  lost 
in  this  world:  look  at  a  blossom — it  drops 
presently,  having  done  its  service  and  lasted 
its  time ;  but  fruits  succeed,  and  where  would 
be  the  blossom's  place  could  it  continue  ?  As 
well  affirm  that  your  eye  is  no  longer  in  your 
body,  because  its  earliest  favourite,  whatever  it 
may  have  first  loved  to  look  on,  is  dead  and  done 
with — as  that  any  affection  is  lost  to  the  soul 
when  its  first  object,  whatever  happened  first 
253 


to  satisfy  it,  is  superseded  in  due  course.  Keep 
but  ever  looking,  whether  with  the  body's  eye 
or  the  mind's,  and  you  will  soon  find  something 
to  look  on !  Has  a  man  done  wondering  at 
women? — There  follow  men,  dead  and  alive,  to 
wonder  at.  Has  he  done  wondering  at  men  r — 
There's  God  to  wonder  at :  and  the  faculty  of 
wonder  may  be,  at  the  same  time,  old  and  tired 
enough  with  respect  to  its  first  object,  and  yet 
young  and  fresh  sufficiently,  so  far  as  concerns 
its  novel  one.  Thus.  .  .  . 

1st  Student.  Put  Schramm's  pipe  into  his  mouth 
again  !  There,  you  see  !  Well,  this — Jules  .  .  . 
a  wretched  fribble — oh,  I  watched  his  disportings 
at  Possagno,  the  other  day !  Canova's  gallery — 
you  know :  there  he  marches  first  resolvedly  past 
great  works  by  the  dozen  without  vouchsafing 
an  eye :  all  at  once  he  stops  full  at  the  Paiche- 
fanclnUa  —  cannot  pass  that  old  acquaintance 
without  a  nod  of  encouragement — "  In  your  new 
place,  beauty  ?  Then  behave  yourself  as  well 
here  as  at  Munich — I  see  you  !  "  Next  he  posts 
himself  deliberately  before  the  unfinished  P'tcta 
for  half  an  hour  without  moving,  till  up  he  starts 
of  a  sudden,  and  thrusts  his  very  nose  into — I 
say,  into — the  group ;  by  which  gesture  you  are 
informed  that  precisely  the  sole  point  he  had 
254 


not  fully  mastered  in  Canova's  practice  was  a 
certain  method  of  using  the  drill  in  the  articula- 
tion of  the  knee-joint — and  that,  likewise,  has 
he  mastered  at  length!  Good-bye,  therefore, 
to  poor  Canova — whose  gallery  no  longer  need 
detain  his  successor  Jules,  the  predestinated  novel 
thinker  in  marble ! 

5th  Student.  Tell  him  about  the  women — go 
on  to  the  women ! 

1st  Student.  Why,  on  that  matter  he  could 
never  be  supercilious  enough.  How  should  we 
be  other  (he  said)  than  the  poor  devils  you  see, 
with  those  debasing  habits  we  cherish  ?  He  was 
not  to  wallow  in  that  mire,  at  least :  he  would 
wait,  and  love  only  at  the  proper  time,  and  mean- 
while put  up  with  the  Psiche-fanciulla.  Now  I 
happened  to  hear  of  a  young  Greek — real  Greek 
— girl  at  Malamocco ;  a  true  Islander,  do  you  see, 
with  Alciphron's  "  hair  like  sea-moss  " — Schramm 
knows  ! — white  and  quiet  as  an  apparition,  and 
fourteen  years  old  at  farthest, — a  daughter  of 
Natalia,  so  she  swears — that  hag  Natalia,  who 
helps  us  to  models  at  three  lire  an  hour.  We 
selected  this  girl  for  the  heroine  of  our  jest.  So, 
first,  Jules  received  a  scented  letter — somebody 
had  seen  his  Tydeus  at  the  academy,  and  my 
picture  was  nothing  to  it — a  profound  admirer 

255 


bade  him  persevere — would  make  herself  known 
to  him  ere  long — (Paolina,  my  little  friend  of  the 
Fenice,  transcribes  divinely).  And  in  due  time, 
the  mysterious  correspondent  gave  certain  hints 
of  her  peculiar  charms — the  pale  cheeks,  the 
black  hair— whatever,  in  short,  had  struck  us  in 
our  Malamocco  model :  we  retained  her  name, 
too — Phene,  which  is  by  interpretation,  sea  eagle. 
Now,  think  of  Jules  finding  himself  distinguished 
from  the  herd  of  us  by  such  a  creature !  In  his 
very  first  answer  he  proposed  marrying  his  moni- 
tress :  and  fancy  us  over  these  letters,  two,  three 
times  a  day,  to  receive  and  dispatch  !  I  concocted 
the  main  of  it :  relations  were  in  the  way — secrecy 
must  be  observed — in  fine,  would  he  wed  her  on 
trust,  and  only  speak  to  her  when  they  were  in- 
dissolubly  united  ?  St — st — Here  they  come  ! 

6tk  Student.  Both  of  them !  Heaven's  love, 
speak  softly  !  speak  within  yourselves  ! 

,~>lh  Student.  Look  at  the  bridegroom  !  Half  his 
hair  in  storm,  and  half  in  calm, — patted  down  over 
the  left  temple, — like  a  frothy  cup  one  blows  on 
to  cool  it !  and  the  same  old  blouse  that  he 
murders  the  marble  in  ! 

-2nd  Student.  Not  a  rich  vest  like  yours,  Hanni- 
bal Scratchy  ! — rich,  that  your  face  may  the  better 
set  it  off! 

256 


6th  Student.  And  the  bride  !  Yes,  sure  enough, 
our  Phene !  Should  you  have  known  her  in  her 
clothes  ?  How  magnificently  pale  ! 

Gottlieb.  She  does  not  also  take  it  for  earnest,  I 
hope  ? 

1st  Student.  Oh,  Natalia's  concern,  that  is  !  We 
settle  with  Natalia. 

6th  Student.  She  does  not  speak — has  evidently 
let  out  no  word.  The  only  thing  is,  will  she 
equally  remember  the  rest  of  her  lesson,  and 
repeat  correctly  all  those  verses  which  are  to 
break  the  secret  to  Jules  ? 

Gottlieb.   How  he  gazes  on  her  !     Pity — pity  ! 

1st  Student.  They  go  in— now,  silence !  You 
three, — not  nearer  the  window,  mind,  than  that 
pomegranate — just  where  the  little  girl,  who  a 
few  minutes  ago  passed  us  singing,  is  seated  ! 

II. — NOON.  Over  Orcana.  The  house  of  JULES, 
who  crosses  its  threshold  with  PHENE — she  is 
silent,  on  which  JULES  begins — 

Do  not  die,  Phene — I  am  yours  now — you 
Are  mine  now — let  fate  reach  me  how  she  likes, 
If  you'll  not  die — so,  never  die  !     Sit  here — 
My  workroom's  single  seat :  I  over-lean 
This  length  of  hair  and  lustrous  front — they  turn 
R  257 


Like  an  entire  flower  upward — eyes — lips — last 
Your  chin — no,  last  your  throat  turns — 'tis  their 

scent 

Pulls  clown  my  face  upon  you !     Nay,  look  ever 
This  one  way  till  I  change,  grow  you — I  could 
Change  into  you,  beloved! 

You  by  me, 

And  I  by  you — this  is  your  hand  in  mine — 
And  side  by  side  we  sit :  all's  true.     Thank  God  ! 
I  have  spoken — speak,  you  ! 

— O,  my  life  to  come  ! 

My  Tydeus  must  be  carved,  that's  there  in  clay ; 
Yet  how  be  carved,  with  you  about  the  chamber? 
Where  must  I  place  you  ?     When  I  think   that 

once 
This  room-full   of  rough  block-work  seemed  my 

heaven 

Without  you  !     Shall  I  ever  work  again — 
Get  fairly  into  my  old  ways  again — 
Bid  each  conception  stand  while,  trait  by  trait, 
My  hand  transfers  its  lineaments  to  stone  ? 
Will  my  mere  fancies  live  near  you,  my  truth — 
The  live  truth — passing  and  repassing  me — 
Sitting  beside  me  ? 

Now  speak ! 

Only,  first, 
See,  all  your  letters !     Was't  not  well  contrived  ? 

258 


Their  hiding-place  is  Psyche's  robe  ;  she  keeps 
Your   letters   next    her   skin :    which    drops    out 

foremost  ? 

Ah, — this  that  swam  down  like  a  first  moonbeam 
Into  my  world  ! 

Again  those  eyes  complete 
Their  melancholy  survey,  sweet  and  slow, 
Of  all  my  room  holds  ;  to  return  and  rest 
On  me,  with  pity,  yet  some  wonder  too — 
As  if  God  bade  some  spirit  plague  a  world, 
And  this  were  the  one  moment  of  surprise 
And  sorrow  while  she  took  her  station,  pausing 
O'er  what  she  sees,  finds  good,  and  must  destroy  ! 
What  gaze  you  at  ?     Those  ?     Books,  I  told  you 

of; 

Let  your  first  word  to  me  rejoice  them,  too  : 
This  minion,  a  Coluthus,  writ  in  red 
Bistre  and  azure  by  Bessarion's  scribe — 
Read  this  line  .  .  .  no,  shame — Homer's  be  the 

Greek 

First  breathed  me  from  the  lips  of  my  Greek  girl 
My  Odyssey  in  coarse  black  vivid  type 
With  faded  yellow  blossoms  'twixt  page  and  page, 
To  mark  great  places  with  true  gratitude ; 
"  He  said,  and  on  Antinous  directed 
"A  bitter  shaft"  ...  a  flower  blots  out  the  rest! 
Again  upon  your  search  ?     My  statues,  then  ! 
259 


— Ah,  do  not  mind  that — better  that  will  look 
When  cast  in  bronze — an  Almaign  Kaiser,  that, 
Swart-green  and  gold,  with  truncheon  based  on 

hip. 

This,  rather,  turn  to  !     What,  unrecognised  ? 
I  thought  you  would  have  seen  that  here  you  sit 
As  I  imagined  you, — Hippolyta, 
Naked  upon  her  bright  Numidian  horse  ! 
Recall  you  this,  then  ?     "  Carve  in  bold  relief"- 
So  you  commanded — "  carve,  against  I  come, 
"  A  Greek,  in  Athens,  as  our  fashion  was, 
"  Feasting,  bay-filleted  and  thunder-free, 
'•  Who  rises  'neath  the  lifted  myrtle-branch  : 
ee  c  Pfdlge    those    who    s/cir     Ilipparcln/s,'     cry    the 

guests, 

" '  While  o'er  thy  head  the  singer's  myrtle  wares 
"  '  As  erst  above  our  champions'  :  stand  up,  a/I  !  '  ' 
See,  I  have  laboured  to  express  your  thought ! 
Quite  round,  a  cluster  of  mere  hands  and  arms, 
(Thrust  in  all  senses,  all  ways,  from  all  sides, 
Only  consenting  at  the  branches'  end 
They  strain  toward)   serves    for   frame  to  a  sole 

face — 

The  Praiser's — in  the  centre — who  with  eyes 
Sightless,  so  bend  they  back  to  light  inside 
His  brain  where  visionary  forms  throng  up, 
Sings,  minding  not  that  palpitating  arch 
260 


Of  hands  and  arms,  nor  the  quick  drip  of  wine 
From  the  drenched  leaves   o'erhead,  nor  crowns 

cast  off, 

Violet  and  parsley  crowns  to  trample  on — 
Sings,  pausing  as  the  patron-ghosts  approve, 
Devoutly  their  unconquerable  hymn  ! 
But  you  must  say  a  "  well  "  to  that — say, "  well !  " 
Because  you  gaze — am  1  fantastic,  sweet  ? 
Gaze  like  my  very  life's-stuff,  marble — marbly 
Even  to  the  silence !  why  before  I  found 
The  real  flesh  Phene,  I  inured  myself 
To  see,  throughout  all  nature,  varied  stuff 
For  better  nature's  birth  by  means  of  art : 
With  me,  each  substance  tended  to  one  form 
Of  beauty — to  the  human  Archetype — 
On  every  side  occurred  suggestive  germs 
Of  that — the  tree,  the  flower — or  take  the  fruit — 
Some  rosy  shape,  continuing  the  peach, 
Curved  beewise  o'er  it's  bough ;  as  rosy  limbs, 
Depending,  nestled  in  the  leaves — and  just 
From  a  cleft  rose-peach  the  whole  Dryad  sprang  : 
But  of  the  stuffs  one  can  be  master  of,    . 
How  I  divined  their  capabilities  ! 
From  the  soft-rinded  smoothening  facile  chalk 
That  yields  your  outline  to  the  air's  embrace, 
Half-softened  by  a  halo's  pearly  gloom  ; 
Down  to  the  crisp  imperious  steel,  so  sure 
261 


To  cut  its  one  confided  thought  clean  out 
Of  all  the  world  :  but  marble  ! — 'neath  my  tools 
More  pliable  than  jelly — as  it  were 
Some  clear  primordial  creature  dug  from  depths 
In  the  Earth's  heart,  where  itself  breeds  itself, 
And  whence  all  baser  substance  may  be  worked  ; 
Refine  it  off  to  air,  you  may — condense  it 
Down  to  the  diamond  ; — is  not  metal  there, 
When  o'er  the  sudden  specks  my  chisel  trips  ? 
— Not  flesh — as  flake  off  flake  I  scale,  approach, 
Lay  bare  those  bluish  veins  of  blood  asleep? 
Lurks    flame    in    no    strange    windings    where, 

surprised 

By  the  swift  implement  sent  home  at  once, 
Flushes  and  glowings  radiate  and  hover 
About  its  track  ? — 

Phene  ?  what — why  is  this  ? 
That  whitening  cheek,  those  still-dilating  eyes ! 
Ah,  you  will  die — I  knew  that  you  would  die  ! 

PHENE  begins,  on  his  having  long  remained  silent. 

Now  the  end's  coming — to  be  sure,  it  must 
Have  ended  sometime  !     Tush — why  need  I  speak 
Their  foolish  speech  ?     I  cannot  bring  to  mind 
One  half  of  it,  besides  ;  and  do  not  care 
For  old  Natalia  now,  nor  any  of  them. 
262 


Oh,  you — what  are  you  ? — if  I  do  not  try 
To  say  the  words  Natalia  made  me  learn, 
To  please  your  friends, — it  is  to  keep  myself 
Where  your  voice  lifted  me,  by  letting  it 
Proceed — but  can  it  ?     Even  you,  perhaps, 
Cannot  take  up,  now  you  have  once  let  fall, 
The  music's  life,  and  me  along  with  that — 
No,  or  you  would  !     We'll  stay,  then,  as  we  are 
— Above  the  world. 

You  creature  with  the  eyes  ! 
If  I  could  look  for  ever  up  to  them, 
As  now  you  let  me, — I  believe,  all  sin, 
All  memory  of  wrong  done  or  suffering  borne, 
Would  drop  down,  low  and  lower,  to  the  earth 
Whence  all  that's  low  comes,  and  there  touch  and 

stay 

— Never  to  overtake  the  rest  of  me, 
All  that,  unspotted,  reaches  up  to  you, 
Drawn  by  those  eyes  !     What  rises  is  myself, 
Not  so  the  shame  and  suffering ;  but  they  sink, 
Are  left,  I  rise  above  them — Keep  me  so 
Above  the  world  ! 

But  you  sink,  for  your  eyes 
Are  altering — altered  !     Stay — "  I  love  you,  love 

you  "... 

I  could  prevent  it  if  I  understood 
More  of  your  words  to  me — was't  in  the  tone 
263 


Or  the  words,  your  power  ? 

Or  stay — I  will 
Their    speech,    if    that     contents    you!       Only, 

change 

No  more,  and  I  shall  find  it  presently 
— Far  back  here,  in  the  brain  yourself  filled  up. 
Natalia  threatened  me  that  harm  would  follow 
Unless  I  spoke  their  lesson  to  the  end, 
But  harm  to  me,  I  thought  she  meant,  not  you. 
Your    friends,  —  Natalia    said    they    were    your 

friends 

And  meant  you  well, — because  I  doubted  it, 
Observing  (what  was  very  strange  to  see) 
On  every  face,  so  different  in  all  else, 
The  same  smile  girls  like  us  are  used  to  bear, 
But  never  men,  men  cannot  stoop  so  low  ; 
Yet  your  friends,  speaking  of  you,  used  that  smile, 
That  hateful  smirk  of  boundless  self-conceit 
Which  seems  to  take  possession  of  this  world 
And  make  of  God  their  tame  confederate, 
Purveyor  to  their  appetites  .   .  .  you  know  ! 
But  no — Natalia  said  they  were  your  friends, 
And  they  assented  while  they  smiled  the  more. 
And  all  came  round  me, — that  thin  Englishman 
With  light,  lank  hair  seemed  leader  of  the  rest ; 
He  held  a  paper — "  What  we  want,"  said  he, 
Ending  some  explanation  to  his  friends — 
264 


"  Is  something  slow,  involved  and  mystical, 
"To  hold  Jules  long  in  doubt,  yet  take  his  taste 
"  And  lure  him  on,  so  that,  at  innermost 
"  Where  he  seeks  sweetness'   soul,  he  may  find — 

this! 

"  — As  in  the  apple's  core,  the  noisome  fly  : 
"  For  insects  on  the  rind  ai-e  seen  at  once, 
"  And  brushed  aside  as  soon,  but  this  is  found 
"  Only  when  on  the  lips  or  loathing  tongue." 
And  so  he  read  what  I  have  got  by  heart — 
I'll    speak    it,  — "  Do    not    die,    love !       I    am 

yours  "... 

Stop — is  not  that,  or  like  that,  part  of  words 
Yourself  began  by  speaking  ?     Strange  to  lose 
What  costs  much  pains  to    learn  !     Is  this  more 

right  ? 

/  am  (i  painter  who  cannot  paint  ; 
In  my  life,  a  devil  rather  than  saint. 
In  my  brain,  as  poor  a  creature  too — 
Ao  end  to  all  I  cannot  do  ! 
Yet  do  one  thing  at  least  I  can  — 
Lore  a  man,  or  hate  a  man 
Supremely  :  thus  my  lore  began. 
Through  the  Valley  of  Love  I  went, 
In  its  loi'ingest  spot  to  abide, 
And  just  on  the  verge  where  I  pitched  my  tent, 
265 


I  found  Hate  dwelling  beside. 

(Let  the  Bridegroom  ask  what  the  painter  meant, 

Of  his  Bride,  of  the  peerless  Bride  /) 

And  further,  I  traversed  Hate's  grove, 

In  its  hate  fullest  nook  to  dwell ; 

But  lo,  trhere  I  flun  g  nit/self  prone,  couched  Lore 

Where  the  deepest  shad  on-  fell. 

(The  meaning — those  black  bride' s-cyes  above, 

\ot  the  painter's  lip  should  tell  /) 

"  And  here/'  said  he,  "  Jules  probably  will  ask, 
"  You   have   black   eyes,    love,  —  you   are,  sure 

enough, 

"  My  peerless  bride, — so  do  you  tell,  indeed, 
"  What  needs    some    explanation  —  what    means 

this  ? " 
— And  I  am  to  go  on,  without  a  word — 

So  I  greir  wiser  in  Lore  and  Hate, 
From  simple,  that  I  was  of  late. 
For  once,  when  I  loved,  I  would  enlace 
Breast,  eyelids,  hands,  feel,  form  and  face 
Of  her  I  loved,  in  one  embrace — 
As  if  by  mere  love  I  could  love  immensely  ! 
And  when  I  haled,  I  would  plunge 
My  sirord,  and  wipe  with  the  first  lunge 
My  foe's  whole  life  out,  like  a  sponge — 
.7.9  (f  by  mere  hate  I  could  hate  intensely  ! 
266 


But  now  I  am  mter,  know  better  the  fashion 

Hotv  passion  seeks  aid  from  its  opposite  passion, 

And  if  I  see  cause  to  love  more,  or  hate  more 

That  ever  man  loved,  ever  hated,  before — 

.litd  seek  in  the  I  alley  of  Love, 

The  spot,  or  the  spot  in  Hate's  grove, 

Where  my  soul  may  the  sureliest  reach 

The  essence,  nought  less,  of  each, 

The  Hate  of  all  Hates,  or  the  Love 

Of  all  Loves,  in  its  Valley  or  Grove, — 

I  find  them  the  very  warders 

Each  of  the  other  s  borders. 

I  love  most,  when  Love  is  disguised 

In  Hate  ;  and  when  Hate  is  surprised 

In  Love,  then  I  hate  most :  ask 

Hotv  Love  smiles  through  Plate's  iron  casque, 

Hate  grins  through  Love's  rose-braided  mask, — 

And  how,  having  hated  thee, 

I  sought  long  and  painfully 

To  wound  thee,  and  not  prick 

The  skin,  but  pierce  to  the  quick — 

Ask  this,  my  Jules,  and  be  answered  straight 

By  thy  bride — how  the  painter  Lutwyche  can  hate  ! 

JULES  interposes. 

Lutwyche — who  else  f     But  all  of  them,  no  doubt, 
Hated  me  :  they  at  Venice — presently 
267 


Their  turn,  however!     You  I  shall  not  meet : 
If  I  dreamed,  saying  this  would  wake  me ! 

Keep 

What's  here,  this  gold — we  cannot  meet  again. 
Consider — and  the  money  was  but  meant 
For  two  years'  travel,  which  is  over  now, 
All  chance,  or  hope,  or  care,  or  need  of  it ! 
This — and  what  comes  from  selling  these,  my  casts 
And  books,  and  medals,  except  ...  let  them  go 
Together,  so  the  produce  keeps  you  safe 
Out  of  Natalia's  clutches  ! — If  by  chance 
(For  all's  chance  here)  I  should  survive  the  gang 
At  Venice,  root  out  all  fifteen  of  them, 
We  might  meet  somewhere,  since    the  world   is 
wide — 

[From  irif/iottl  is  heard  the  roice  of  PIPPA. 

ringing — 

Give  her  but  a  leant  excuse  to  lore  »ic  ! 
When — where — 

How — can  this  (inn  establish  her  above  me, 
//  'fort itnc  /i.vcd  her  as  nnj  lady  there, 
There  already,  to  eternally  reprove  me  •f 
("Hist" — said  Kate  the  i/itcen  ; 
But  "Oh — "  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 
"'Tis  only  ft  page  that  carols  unseen 
"  Crumbling  i/oiir  hounds  their  messes  !'") 
268 


Is  she  n-ronged  ? — To  the  rescue  of  her  honour, 

Afy  heart  ! 

Is  she  poor  ? —  What  costs  it  to  be  styled  a  donour  ? 

Merely  an  earth's  to  cleave,  a  sea's  to  part  ! 

But  that  fortune  should  have  thrust  all  this  upon  he 

("  Xaij,  list," — bade  Kate  the  queen; 

A>id  still  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

"  '  Tts  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen 

"  Fitting  your  hawks  their  jesses  !  ") 

[Pii'PA  passes. 
JULES  resumes. 

What  name  was  that  the  little  girl  sang  forth  ? 

Kate  ?     The  Cornaro,  doubtless,  who  renounced 

The  crown  of  Cyprus  to  be  lady  here 

At  Asolo,  where  still  the  peasants  keep 

Her  memory  ;  and  songs  tell  how  many  a  page 

Pined  for  the  grace  of  one  so  far  above 

His  power  of  doing  good  to,  as  a  queen — 

"She    never   could    be    wronged,    be    poor,"    he 

sighed, 
"  For  him  to  help  her !  "• 

Yes,  a  bitter  thing 
To  see  our  lady  above  all  need  of  us  ; 
Yet  so  we  look  ere  we  will  love ;  not  I, 
But  the  world  looks  so.      If  whoever  loves 
Must  be,  in  some  sort,  god  or  worshipper, 
The  blessing  or  the  blest  one,  queen  or  page, 
269. 


Why  should  we  always  choose  the  page's  part  '•: 
Here  is  a  woman  with  utter  need  of  me, — 
I  find  myself  queen  here,  it  seems ! 

How  strange  ! 

Look  at  the  woman  here  with  the  new  soul, 
Like  my  own  Psyche's, — fresh  upon  her  lips 
Alit,  the  visionary  butterfly, 
Waiting  my  word  to  enter  and  make  bright, 
Or  flutter  off  and  leave  all  blank  as  first. 
This  body  had  no  soul  before,  but  slept 
Or  stirred,  was  beauteous  or  ungainly,  free 
From  taint  or  foul  with  stain,  as  outward  things 
Fastened  their  image  on  its  passiveness: 
Now,  it  will  wake,  feel,  live — or  die  again  ! 
Shall  to  produce  form  out  of  unshaped  stuff 
Be  art — and,  further,  to  evoke  a  soul 
From  form,  be  nothing  ?     This  new  soul  is  mine  ! 

Now,  to  kill  Lutwyche,  what  would  that  do  ? — save 
A  wretched  dauber,  men  will  hoot  to  death 
Without  me,  from  their  laughter! — Oh,  to  hear 
God's  voice  plain  as  I  heard  it  first,  before 
They  broke  in  with  that  laughter !     I  heard  them 
Henceforth,  not  God ! 

To  Ancona — Greece — some  isle  ! 
I  wanted  silence  only — there  is  clay 
Everywhere.     One  may  do  whate'er  one  likes 
270 


In  Art — the  only  thing  is,  to  make  sure 

That  one  does  like  it — which  takes  pains  to  know. 

Scatter  all  this,  my  Phene — this  mad  dream  ! 
Who — what  is  Lutwyche — what  Natalia's  friends, 
What  the  whole  world  except  our  love — my  own, 
Own  Phene  ?     But  I  told  you,  did  I  not, 
Ere  night  we  travel  for  your  land — some  isle 
With  the  sea's  silence  on  it  ?     Stand  aside — 
I  do  but  break  these  paltry  models  up 
To  begin  art  afresh.     Shall  I  meet  Lutwyche, 
And  save  him  from  my  statue's  meeting  him  ? 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  the  far  seas ! 
Like  a  god  going  thro'  his  world  there  stands 
One  mountain  for  a  moment  in  the  dusk, 
Whole  brotherhoods  of  cedars  on  its  brow — 
And  you  are  ever  by  me  while  I  gaze 
— Are  in  my  arms  as  now — as  now — as  now  ! 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  the  far  seas ! 
Some  unsuspected  isle  in  far  off  seas ! 

Talk  by  the  way,  while  PIPPA  is  passing  from  Orcana 
to  the  Turret.  Two  or  three  of  the  Austrian 
Police  loitering  with  BLUPHOCKS,  an  English 
vagabond,  jtui  in  view  of  the  Turret. 

Bluphocks.1  So,  that    is   your    Pippa,  the  little 

1  "  He  maketh  His  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and  on  the  good, 
and  sendeth  rain  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust." 
271 


girl  who  passed  us  singing  ?  Well,  your  Bishop's 
Intendant's  money  shall  be  honestly  earned : — 
now,  don't  make  me  that  sour  face  because  I 
bring  the  Bishop's  name  into  the  business — we 
know  he  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  such  horrors 
— we  know  that  he  is  a  saint  and  all  that  a  Bishop 
should  be,  who  is  a  great  man  besides.  Oh  !  ire  re 
but  every  worm  a  maggot,  Every  fly  a  grig,  Every 
bough  a  Christmas  faggot,  Every  tune  a  jig.'  In 
fact,  I  have  abjured  all  religions;  but  the  last  1 
inclined  to,  was  the  Armenian  —  for  I  have 
travelled,  do  you  see,  and  at  Koenigsberg,  Prussia 
Improper  (so  styled  because  there's  a  sort  of 
bleak  hungry  sun  there),  you  might  remark  over 
a  venerable  house-porch,  a  certain  Chaldee  in- 
scription ;  and  brief  as  it  is,  a  mere  glance  at 
it  used  absolutely  to  change  the  mood  of  every 
bearded  passenger.  In  they  turned,  one  and  all ; 
the  young  and  lightsome,  with  no  irreverent 
pause,  the  aged  and  decrepit,  with  a  sensible 
alacrity, — 'twas  the  Grand  Rabbi's  abode,  in  short. 
Struck  with  curiosity,  I  lost  no  time  in  learning 
Syriac — (these  are  vowels,  you  dogs, — follow  my 
stick's  end  in  the  mud — Celarent,  Darii,  Ferio  /) 
and  one  morning  presented  myself  spelling-book 
in  hand,  a,  b,  c, —  I  picked  it  out  letter  by  letter, 
and  what  was  the  purport  of  this  miraculous  posy  ? 
272 


Some  cherished  legend  of  the  past  you'll  say — 
"  Ho/r  Moses  hocus-pocust  Egypt's  land  with  fly  and 
locust," — or,  "How  to  Jonah  sounded  harshish,  Get 
thee  up  and  go  to  Tarshish," — or,  "  How  the  angel 
meeting  Balaam,  Straight  his  ass  returned  a  salaam  "  ; 
— in  no  wise  ! — "  Shackabrach — Boach — somebody 
or  other  —  Isaac,  Re-cei-ver,  Pur-cha-ser  and  Ex- 
chan-ger  of  Stolen  goods  !"  So  talk  to  me  of  the 
religion  of  a  bishop  !  I  have  renounced  all  bishops 
save  Bishop  Beveridge — mean  to  live  so — and  die 
— As  some  Greek  dog-sage,  dead  and  merry,  Hellivard 
bound  in  Charon's  wherry  —  With  food  for  both 
worlds,  under  and  upper,  Lupine-seed  and  Hecate's 
supper,  and  never  an  obolus  .  .  .  (Though  thanks 
to  you,  or  this  Intendant  thro'  you,  or  this  Bishop 
through  his  Intendant  —  I  possess  a  burning 
pocket-full  of  ztvanzigers)  .  .  .  To  pay  the  Stygian 
ferry  ! 

1st  Policeman.  There  is  the  girl,  then;  go  and 
deserve  them  the  moment  you  have  pointed  out 
to  us  Signer  Luigi  and  his  mother.  (7'o  the  restj 
I  have  been  noticing  a  house  yonder,  this  long 
while — not  a  shutter  unclosed  since  morning ! 

2nd  Policeman.    Old   Luca   Gaddi's,  that   owns 

the  silk-mills  here :  he  dozes  by  the  hour — wakes 

up,  sighs  deeply,  says  he  should  like  to  be  Prince 

Metternich,  and   then  dozes  again,  after  having 

s  273 


bidden  young  Sebald,  the  foreigner,  set  his  wife 
to  playing  draughts :  never  molest  such  a  house- 
hold, they  mean  well. 

Bhtpkockf,  Only,  cannot  you  tell  me  some- 
thing of  this  little  Pippa,  I  must  have  to  do  with  ? 
— one  could  make  something  of  that  name.  Pippa 
— that  is,  short  for  Felippa — rhyming  to — 
consults  Hertrippa — Keller  at  Ihoit,  Kht^  .t 
Something  might  be  done  with  that  name. 

^iid  Policeman.  Put  into  rhyme  that  your  head 
and  a  ripe  musk-melon  would  not  be  dear  at  half 
a  zn'<t»:;l«er  !  Leave  this  fooling,  and  look  out — 
the  afternoon's  over  or  nearly  so. 

3rd  Policeman.  Where  in  this  passport  of  Signor 
Luigi  does  our  principal  instruct  you  to  watch 
him  so  narrowly  ?  There  ?  what's  there  beside  a 
simple  signature  ?  (That  English  fool's  busy 
watching.) 

Znd  Policeman.  Flourish  all  round  —  "put  all 
possible  obstacles  in  his  way"  ;  oblong  dot  at  the 
end  — "  Detain  him  till  further  advices  reach 
you";  scratch  at  bottom — "send  him  back  on 
pretence  of  some  informality  in  the  above  "  ;  ink- 
spurt  on  right-hand  side,  (which  is  the  case  here) 
— "  Arrest  him  at  once,"  why  and  wherefore,  I 
don't  concern  myself,  but  my  instructions  amount 
to  this  :  if  Signor  Luigi  leaves  home  to-night  for 
274 


Vienna,  well  and  good — the  passport  deposed 
with  us  for  our  visa  is  really  for  his  own  use,  they 
have  misinformed  the  Office,  and  he  means  well ; 
but  let  him  stay  over  to-night — there  has  been 
the  pretence  we  suspect — the  accounts  of  his 
corresponding  and  holding  intelligence  with  the 
Carbonari  are  correct — we  arrest  him  at  once — 
to-morrow  comes  Venice — and  presently,  Spiel- 
berg. Bluphocks  makes  the  signal  sure  enough  ! 
That  is  he,  entering  the  turret  with  his  mother, 
no  doubt. 

III. — EVENING.     Inside  the  Turret.     LUIGI  and  his 
Mother  entering. 

Mother.   If  there  blew  wind,  you'd  hear  a  long 

sigh,  easing 

The  utmost  heaviness  of  music's  heart. 
Luigi.   Here  in  the  archway  ? 
Mother.  Oh,  no,  no — in  farther, 

Where  the  echo  is  made — on  the  ridge. 

Luigi.  Here  surely,  then. 

How  plain  the  tap  of  my  heel  as  I  leaped  up ! 
Hark — "  Lucius  Junius  !  "     The    very  ghost  of  a 

voice, 

Whose  body  is  caught  and  kept  by  ...   what  are 
those  ? 

275 


Mere  withered  wall-flowers,  waving  overhead  - 
They   seem  an  elvish  group   with  thin  bleached 

hair 

Who  lean  out  of  their  topmost  fortress — looking 
And  listening,  mountain  men,  to  what  we  say, 
Hands  under  chin  of  each  grave  earthy  face  : 
Up  and  show  faces  all  of  you  ! — "  All  <>/ '  i/on  !  " 
That's  the  king's  dwarf  with  the  scarlet  comb  ; 

now  hark — 

Come  down  and  meet  your  fate  !     Hark — "  Mi-el 
your  fate!" 

Mother.  Let  him  not  meet  it,  my  Luigi — do  not 
Go  to  his  city !  putting  crime  aside, 
Half  of  these  ills  of  Italy  are  feigned — 
Your  Pellicos  and  writers  for  effect, 
Write  for  effect. 

Lui<ri.  Hush  !  say  A.  writes,  and  B. 

Mother.  These  A.'s  and  B.'s  write  for  effect,  I 

say. 

Then,  evil  is  in  its  nature  loud,  while  good 
Is  silent — you  hear  each  petty  injury — 
None  of  his  daily  virtues  ;  he  is  old, 
Quiet,  and  kind,  and  densely  stupid — win- 
Do  A.  and  B.  not  kill  him  themselves  ? 

I,ui«i.  They  teach 

Others  to  kill  him — me — and,  if  I  fail, 
Others  to  succeed  ;  now,  if  A.  tried  and  failed 
276 


I  could  not  teach  that :  mine's  the  lesser  task. 
Mother,  they  visit  night  by  night  .  .   . 

Mother.  — You,  Luigi  ? 

Ah,  will  you  let  me  tell  you  what  you  are  ? 

Luigi.  Why  not  ?     Oh,  the  one  thing  you  fear 

to  hint, 

You  may  assure  yourself  I  say  and  say 
Ever  to  myself;  at  times — nay,  even  as  now 
We  sit,  I  think  my  mind  is  touched — suspect 
All  is  not  sound  :  but  is  not  knowing  that, 
What  constitutes  one  sane  or  otherwise  ? 
I  know  I  am  thus — so  all  is  right  again  ; 
I  laugh  at  myself  as  through  the  town  I  walk, 
And  see  men  merry  as  if  no  Italy 
Were  suffering  ;  then  I  ponder — "  I  am  rich, 
"  Young,  healthy  ;  why  should  this  fact  trouble  me, 
"More    than    it    troubles    these?"     But   it  does 

trouble  me  ! 

No — trouble's  a  bad  word — for  as  I  walk 
There's  springing  and  melody  and  giddiness, 
And  old  quaint  terms  and  passages  of  my  youth — 
Dreams  long  forgotten,  little  in  themselves — 
Return  to  me — whatever  may  amuse  me, 
And  earth  seems  in  a  truce  with  me,  and  heaven 
Accords  with  me,  all  things  suspend  their  strife, 
The  very  cicalas  laugh  "  There  goes  he,  and  there  ! 
"  Feast  him,  the  time  is  short — he  is  on  his  way 
277 


"  For  the  world's  sake — feast  him  this  once,  our 

friend  ! " 

And  in  return  for  all  this,  I  can  trip 
Cheerfully  up  the  scaffold-steps  :  I  go 
This  evening,  mother ! 

Mother.  But  mistrust  yourself — 

Mistrust  the  judgment  you  pronounce  on  him. 

Liiigi.  Oh,    there  I    feel — am   sure  that    I  am 
right! 

Mother.   Mistrust  your  judgment,  then,  of  the 

mere  means 

Of  this  wild  enterprise  :  say  you  are  right, — 
How  should  one  in  your  state  e'er  bring  to  pass 
What  would  require  a  cool  head,  a  cold  heart, 
And  a  calm  hand  ?     You  never  will  escape. 

Liiigi.   Escape — to  even  wish  that,  would  spoil 

all! 

The  dying  is  best  part  of  it.     Too  much 
Have  I  enjoyed  these  fifteen  years  of  mine, 
To  leave  myself  excuse  for  longer  life — 
Was  not  life  pressed  down,  running  o'er  with  joy, 
That  I  might  finish  with  it  ere  my  fellows 
WTho,  sparelier  feasted,  make  a  longer  stay  ? 
I  was  put  at  the  board-head,  helped  to  all 
At  first ;  I  rise  up  happy  and  content. 
God  must  be  glad  one  loves  His  world  so  much — 
I  can  give  news  of  earth  to  all  the  dead 
278 


Who  ask  me : — last  year's  sunsets,  and  great  stars 
That  had  a  right  to  come  first  and  see  ebb 
The  crimson  wave  that  drifts  the  sun  away — 
Those  crescent  moons  with  notched  and  burning 

rims 
That    strengthened    into    sharp    fire,    and    there 

stood, 

Impatient  of  the  azure — and  that  day 
In  March,  a  double  rainbow  stopped  the  storm — 
May's     warm,     slow,     yellow     moonlit     summer 

nights — 

Gone  are  they,  but  I  have  them  in  my  soul ! 
Mother.  (He  will  not  go!) 
Luigi.  You  smile  at  me  ! 

'Tis  true. — 

Voluptuousness,  grotesqueness,  ghastliness, 
Environ  my  devotedness  as  quaintly 
As  round  about  some  antique  altar  wreathe 
The  rose  festoons,  goats'  horns,  and  oxen's  skulls. 
Mother.  See    now :    you    reach    the    city — you 

must  cross 
His  threshold — how  ? 

Ltdgi.  Oh,  that's  if  we  conspired  ! 

Then  would  come  pains  in  plenty,  as  you  guess — 
But  guess  not  how  the  qualities  required 
For  such  an  office — qualities  I  have — 
Would  little  stead  me  otherwise  employed, 
279 


Yet  prove  of  rarest  merit  here — here  only. 

Every  one  knows  for  what  his  excellence 

Will  serve,  but  no  one  ever  will  consider 

For  what  his  worst  defect  might  serve  ;  and  yet 

Have  you  not  seen  me  range  our  coppice  yonder 

In  search  of  a  distorted  ash  ? — It  happens 

The  wry  spoilt  branch's  a  natural  perfect  bow ! 

Fancy  the  thrice-sage,  thrice-precautioned  man 

Arriving  at  the  palace  on  my  errand  ! 

No,  no — I  have  a  handsome  dress  packed  up — 

White  satin  here,  to  set  off  my  black  hair — 

In   I  shall  march — for  you  may  watch  your  life 

out 
Behind  thick  walls — make  friends  there  to  betray 

you; 
More  than  one   man    spoils    everything.      March 

straight — 

Only,  no  clumsy  knife  to  fumble  for — 
Take  the  great  gate,  and  walk  (not  saunter)  on 
Thro'  guards  and  guards 1  have  rehearsed  it 

all 

Inside  the  Turret  here  a  hundred  times — 
Don't  ask  the  way  of  whom  you  meet,  observe, 
But  where  they  cluster  thickliest  is  the  door 
Of  doors ;    they'll   let   you    pass — they'll   never 

blab 

Each  to  the  other,  he  knows  not  the  favourite, 
280 


Whence  he    is    bound   and    what's    his    business 

now — 
Walk    in — straight    up    to    him — you    have    no 

knife — 
Be  prompt,  how  should  he  scream  ?     Then,  out 

with  you  ! 

Italy,  Italy,  my  Italy  ! 
You're  free,  you're    free !     Oh    mother,  I    could 

dream 

They  got  about  me — Andrea  from  his  exile, 
Pier  from  his  dungeon,  Gaultier  from  his  gi'ave ! 
Mother.  Well,   you  shall    go.     Yet   seems  this 

patriotism 

The  easiest  virtue  for  a  selfish  man 
To   acquire !     He    loves  himself — and    next,  the 

world — 

If  he  must  love  beyond, — but  nought  between  : 
As  a  short-sighted  man  sees  nought  midway 
His  body  and  the  sun  above.     But  you 
Are  my  adored  Luigi — ever  obedient 
To  my  least  wish,  and  running  o'er  with  love — 
I  could  not  call  you  cruel  or  unkind ! 
Once  more,  your  ground  for  killing  him ! — then 

go! 
Luigi.  Now  do  you  ask  me,  or  make  sport  of 

me  ? 

How  first  the  Austrians  got  these  provinces — 
281 


(If  that  is  all,  I'll  satisfy  you  soon) 

.  .  .  Never  by  conquest  but  by  cunning,  for 

That  treaty  whereby  .  .  . 

Mother.  Well  ? 

Luigi.  (Sure  he's  arrived, 

The  tell-tale  cuckoo — spring's  his  confidant, 
And  he  lets  out  her  April  purposes !) 
Or  ...  better  go  at  once  to  modern  times — 
He   has  .  .  .  they   have  ...  In   fact,  I    under- 
stand 

But  can't  re-state  the  matter ;  that's  my  boast ; 
Others  could  reason  it  out  to  you,  and  prove 
Things  they  have  made  me  feel. 

Mother.  Why  go  to-night  ? 

Morn's  for  adventure.     Jupiter  is  now 
A  morning-star.     I  cannot  hear  you,  Luigi ! 

Luigi.  "  I    am    the    bright    and  morning-star," 

God  saith — 

And,  "to  such  an  one  I  give  the  morning-star ! 
The  gift  of  the  morning-star — have  I  God's  gift 
Of  the  morning-star  ? 

Mother.  Chiara  will  love  to  see 

That  Jupiter  an  evening-star  next  June. 

Luigi.  True,  mother.      Well  for  those  who  live 

through  June  ! 

Great    noontides,    thunder  -  storms,    all    glaring 
pomps 

282 


Which  triumph  at  the  heels  of  sovereign  June 
Leading  his  glorious  revel  thro'  our  world. 
Yes,  Chiara  will  be  here — 

Mother.  In  June — remember, 

Yourself  appointed  that  month  for  her  coming — 

Luigi.  Was  that  low  noise  the  echo  ? 

Mother.  The 

night-wind. 

She  must  be  grown — with  her  blue  eyes  upturned 
As  if  life  were  one  long  and  sweet  surprise  : 
In  June  she  comes. 

Luigi.  We  were  to  see  together 

The  Titian  at  Treviso — there,  again  ! 

[From  without  is  heard  the  voice  of  PIPPA, 
singing — 

A  king  lived  long  ago. 
In  the  morning  of  the  world, 
When  earth  was  niyher  heaven  than  now  ; 
And  the  king's  locks  curled 
Disparting  o'er  a  forehead  full 
As  the  milk-white  space  'twixt  horn  and  horn 
Of  some  sacrificial  bull — 
Only  calm  as  a  babe  new-born  : 
For  he  was  got  to  a  sleepy  mood. 
So  safe  from  all  decrepitude, 
From  age  with  its  bane,  so  sure  gone  by, 
283 


(JVlie  Gods  no  loved  ///in  while  lie  dreamed,') 
That,  having  lived  thus  long,  there  seemed 
No  need  the  king  should  ever  die. 

Luigi.  No  need  that  sort  of  king  should  ever 
die! 

Among  the  rocks  his  city  n-as : 

Before  his  palace,  in  the  sun, 

He  sate  to  see  his  people  pass, 

And  judge  them  every  one 

From  its  threshold  of  smooth  stone. 

They  haled  him  many  a  valley-thief 

Caught  in  the  sheep-pens — robber-clnef, 

Swarthly  and  shameless — beggar-cheat — 

&py-prowler — or  rough  pirate  found 

On  the  sea-sand  left  aground  ; 

And  sometimes  clung  about  his  feet, 

With  bleeding  lip  and  burning  cheek, 

A  woman,  bitterest  wrong  to  speak 

Of  one  with  sullen  thickset  bnnrs  : 

And  sometimes  from  the  prison-house 

The  angry  priests  a  pale  ivretch  brought, 

Who   through    some    chink    had   pushed    and 

pressed, 

On  knees  and  elbows,  belly  and  breast, 
Worm-like  into  the  temple, — caught 
At  last  there  by  the  very  God 
284 


Who  ever  in  the  darkness  strode 
Backward  and  forward,  keeping  watch 
O'er  his  brazen  bowls,  such  rogues  to  catch  ! 
And  these,  all  and  every  one, 
The  king  judged,  sitting  in  the  sun. 

Luigi.  That  king  should  still  judge  sitting  in 
the  sun  ! 

His  councillors,  on  left  and  right, 
Looked  anxious  up, — bid  no  surprise 
Disturbed  the  king's  old  smiling  eyes, 
Where  the  very  blue  had  turned  to  white. 
'Tis  said  a  Python  scared  one  day 
The  breathless  city,  till  he  came, 
II  ithforky  tongue  and  eyes  on  flame, 
Where  the  old  king  sate  to  judge  alway  ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  sweepy  hair, 
Girt  with  a  crown  of  berries  rare 
Which  the  God  will  hardly  give  to  wear 
To  the  maiden  who  singeth,  dancing  bare 
In  the  altar-smoke  by  the  pine-torch  lights, 
At  his  wondrous  forest  rites, — 
Beholding  this,  he  did  not  dare, 
Approach  that  threshold  in  the  sun, 
Assault  the  old  king  smiling  there. 
Such  grace  had  kings  when  the  world  begun  ! 

[PiHPA  passes. 
285 


Lni<ri.   And    such  grace    have    they,   now    that 

the  world  ends ! 

The  Python  in  the  city,  on  the  throne, 
And  brave  men,  God  would  crown  for  slaying  him, 
Lurk  in  bye-corners  lest  they  fall  his  prey. 
Are  crowns  yet  to  be  won,  in  this  late  trial, 
Which  weakness  makes  me  hesitate  to  reach  .- 
'Tis    God's    voice     calls,    how     could     I     stay  ? 
Farewell ! 

Talk  by  l/ic  tray,  while   Pii'i'.v    it  patting  from  the 

Turret  to  the  Bishop's  brother's  House,  close  to 
the  DIIOIHO  .V.  Maria.  Poor  Girls  sitting  on  I  lie 
steps. 

1st.   Girl.  There  goes   a    swallow  to    Venice — 

the  stout  sea-farer ! 

Seeing  those  birds  fly,  makes  one  wish  for  wings. 
Let  us  all  wish  ;  you,  wish  first ! 

^>/<l  (Hrf.  I  ?     This  sunset 

To  finish. 

3rd  Girl.  That  old  .   .   .  somebody  I  know, 
Greyer  and  older  than  my  grandfather, 
To  give  me  the  same  treat  he  gave  last  week — 
Feeding  me  on  his  knee  with  fig-peckers, 
Lampreys,  and  red  Breganze-wine,  and  mumbling 
The  while  some  folly  about  how  well  I  fare, 
286 


To  be  let  eat  my  supper  quietly — 
Since  had  he  not  himself  been  late  this  morning 
Detained  at — never  mind  where, — had  he  not  .  .  . 
"  Eh,  baggage,  had  I  not !  " — 

2nd  Girl.  How  she  can  lie ! 

3rd  Girl.  Look  there — by  the  nails — 

2nd  Girl.  What  makes  your  fingers  red  ? 

3rd  Girl.  Dipping  them  into  wine  to  write  bad 

words  with, 
On  the  bright  table — how  he  laughed ! 

1st  Girl.  My  turn  : 

Spring's  come    and    summer's    coming :   I    would 

wear 

A  long  loose  gown — down  to  the  feet  and  hands — 
With  plaits  here,  close  about  the  throat,  all  day : 
And  all  night  lie,  the  cool  long  nights,  in  bed — 
And  have  new  milk  to  drink — apples  to  eat, 
Deuzans    and   junetings,    leather-coats    .    .   .  ah, 

I  should  say, 
This  is  away  in  the  fields — miles ! 

3rd  Girl.  Say  at  once 

You'd  be  at  home — she'd  always  be  at  home ! 
Now  comes  the  story  of  the  farm  among 
The  cherry  orchards,  and  how  April  snowed 
White  blossoms  on  her  as  she  ran  :  why,  fool, 
They've    rubbed    the    chalk-mark   out,   how    tall 
you  were, 

287 


Twisted  your  starling's  neck,  broken  his  cage, 
Made  a  dunghill  of  your  garden — 

l.v/  ('//•/.  They,  destroy 

My  garden  since  I  left  them  ?  well — perhaps  ! 
I  would  have  done  so — so  I  hope  they  have ! 
A  fig-tree  curled  out  of  our  cottage  wall — 
They  called  it  mine,  I  have  forgotten  why, 
It  must  have  been  there  long  ere  I  was  born  ; 
Cric — eric — I  think  I  hear  the  wasps  o'erhead 
Pricking  the  papers  strung  to  flutter  there 
And  keep    off  birds    in    fruit-time — coarse    long 

papers, 
And  the  wasps  eat  them,  prick  them  through  and 

through. 
3rd    Girl.    How  her  mouth  twitches !     Where 

was  I  ? — before 

She  broke  in  with  her  wishes  and  long  gowns 
And  wasps — would  I  be  such  a  fool ! — Oh,  here  ! 
This  is  my  way — I  answer  every  one 
Who  asks  me  why  I  make  so  much  of  him — 
(If  you  say,  you  love  him — straight  "  he'll  not  be 

gulled  ") 

"He  that  seduced  me  when  I  was  a  girl 
Thus   high — had    eyes    like    yours,    or    hair    like 

yours, 
Brown,  red,  white," — as  the  case  may  be—  that 

pleases ! 

288 


(See  how  that  beetle  burnishes  in  the  path — 
There  sparkles  he  along  the  dust !  and,  there — 
Your  journey  to  that  maize-tuft's  spoilt  at  least !) 
1st  Girl.  When  I  was  young,  they  said  if  you 

killed  one 

Of  those  sunshiny  beetles,  that  his  friend 
Up  there,  would  shine  no  more  that  day  nor  next. 
2nd  Girl.  When  you  were  young  ?     Nor  are  you 

young,  that's  true ! 
How  your  plump  arms,  that  were,  have  dropped 

away ! 

Why,  I  can  span  them  !     Cecco  beats  you  still  ? 
No  matter,  so  you  keep  your  curious  hair. 
I  wish  they'd  find  a  way  to  dye  our  hair 
Your  colour — any  lighter  tint,  indeed, 
Than    black — the    men    say    they   are    sick    of 

black, 
Black  eyes,  black  hair ! 

4-//«  Girl.  Sick  of  yours,  like  enough  ! 

Do  you  pretend  you  ever  tasted  lampreys 
And  ortolans  ?     Giovita,  of  the  palace, 
Engaged  (but  there's  no    trusting   him)  to  slice 

me 

Polenta  with  a  knife  that  has  cut  up 
An  ortolan. 

2nd  Girl.     Why,  there !  is  not  that,  Pippa 
We  are  to  talk  to,  under  the  window,— quick, — 

T  289 


Where  the  lights  are  ? 

l.v/  (Hrl.  No — or  she  would  sing  ; 

— For  the  Intendant  said  .  .  . 

:>nl  dirt.  Oh,  you  sing  first — 

Then,  if  she  listens  and  comes  close  .  .  .  I'll  tell 

you, 

Sing  that  song  the  young  English  noble  made, 
Who  took  you  for  the  purest  of  the  pure, 
And  meant  to  leave    the    world    for   you — what 
fun ! 

"-211(1  dirt.   [£Jng*.] 

You'll  love  me  yet ! — and  I  can  tarry 
Your  love's  protracted  growing : 
June  reared  that  bunch  of  flowers  you  carry 
From  seeds  of  April's  sowing. 

I  plant  a  heartfull  now — some  seed 
At  least  is  sure  to  strike 
And  yield — what  you'll  not  pluck  indeed, 
Not  love,  but,  may  be,   like  ! 

You'll  look  at  least  on  love's  remains, 
A  grave's  one  violet : 
Your  look  ? — that  pays  a  thousand  pains. 
\Yhat's  death  ? — You'll  love  me  yet  ! 

3rd  Girl.  [To  PIPPA  who  approaches.]     Oh,  you 
may  come  closer — we  shall  not  eat  you !     Why,, 
you  seem  the  very  person   that    the   great    rich 
290 


handsome  Englishman  has  fallen  so  violently  in 
love  with  !     I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 

IV. — NIGHT.   The  Palace  by  the  Dtiotiio.  MONSIGNOR, 
dismissing  his  Attendants. 

tfmuignor.  Thanks,  friends,  many  thanks.  I 
chiefly  desire  life  now,  that  I  may  recompense 
every  one  of  you.  Most  I  know  something  of 
already.  What,  a  repast  prepared  ?  Benedicto 
benedicatur  .  .  .  ugh  .  .  .  ugh  !  Where  was  I  ? 
Oh,  as  you  were  remarking,  Ugo,  the  weather  is 
mild,  very  unlike  winter- weather, — but  I  am  a 
Sicilian,  you  know,  and  shiver  in  your  Julys  here  : 
To  be  sure,  when  'twas  full  summer  at  Messina, 
as  we  priests  used  to  cross  in  procession  the  great 
square  on  Assumption  Day,  you  might  see  our 
thickest  yellow  tapers  twist  suddenly  in  two, 
each  like  a  falling  star,  or  sink  down  on  them- 
selves in  a  gore  of  wax.  But  go,  my  friends,  but 
go!  [To  the  Intendant.]  Not  you,  Ugo!  [The 
others  leave  the  apartment.]  I  have  long  wanted  to 
converse  with  you,  Ugo  ! 

Intendant.   Lguccio — 

Monsignor.  .  .  .  'guccio  Stefani,  man  !  of  Ascoli, 
Fermo,  and  Fossombruno ; — what  I  do  need  in- 
structing about,  are  these  accounts  of  your  ad- 
ministration of  my  poor  brother's  affairs.  Ugh  ! 
291 


I  shall  never  get  through  a  third  part  of  your 
accounts :  take  some  of  these  dainties  before  we 
attempt  it,  however :  are  you  bashful  to  that 
degree  ?  For  me,  a  crust  and  water  suffice. 

Intaiddiit.  Do  you  choose  this  especial  night 
to  question  me  ? 

Moiisigtior.  This  night,  Ugo.  You  have 
managed  my  late  brother's  affairs  since  the  death 
of  our  elder  brother — fourteen  years  and  a  month, 
all  but  three  days.  On  the  3rd  of  December, 
I  find  him  .  .  . 

Intendnnt.  If  you  have  so  intimate  an  acquaint- 
ance with  your  brother's  affairs,  you  will  be 
tender  of  turning  so  far  back — they  will  hardly 
bear  looking  into,  so  far  back. 

MoHxignor.  Ay,  ay,  ugh,  ugh, — nothing  but 
disappointments  here  below!  I  remark  a  con- 
siderable payment  made  to  yourself  on  this 
3rd  of  December.  Talk  of  disappointments ! 
There  was  a  young  fellow  here,  Jules,  a  foreign 
sculptor,  I  did  my  utmost  to  advance,  that  the 
church  might  be  a  gainer  by  us  both :  he  was 
going  on  hopefully  enough,  and  of  a  sudden  he 
notifies  to  me  some  marvellous  change  that  has 
happened  in  his  notions  of  art :  here's  his  letter, — 
"He  never  had  a  clearly  conceived  Ideal  within 
his  brain  till  to-day.  Yet  since  his  hand  could 
292 


manage  a  chisel,  he  has  practised  expressing 
other  men's  Ideals — and,  in  the  very  perfection 
he  has  attained  to,  he  foresees  an  ultimate  failure 
— his  unconscious  hand  will  pursue  its  prescribed 
course  of  old  years,  and  will  reproduce  with  a 
fatal  expertness  the  ancient  types,  let  the  novel 
one  appear  never  so  palpably  to  his  spirit :  there 
is  but  one  method  of  escape — confiding  the  virgin 
type  to  as  chaste  a  hand,  he  will  turn  painter 
instead  of  sculptor,  and  paint,  not  carve,  its 
characteristics," — strike  out,  I  dare  say,  a  school 
like  Correggio  :  how  think  you,  Ugo  ? 

Intendant.   Is  Correggio  a  painter  ? 

Monsignor.  Foolish  Jules !  and  yet,  after  all, 
why  foolish?  He  may  —  probably  will,  fail 
egregiously ;  but  if  there  should  arise  a  new 
painter,  will  it  not  be  in  some  such  way  by  a 
poet,  now,  or  a  musician,  (spirits  who  have  con- 
ceived and  perfected  an  Ideal  through  some  other 
channel)  transferring  it  to  this,  and  escaping  our 
conventional  roads  by  pure  ignorance  of  them ; 
eh,  Ugo  ?  If  you  have  no  appetite,  talk  at  least, 
Ugo! 

Intendanl.  Sir,  I  can  submit  no  longer  to  this 

course    of  yours :    first,   you  select  the  group  of 

which  I  formed  one, — next  you  thin  it  gradually, 

— always  retaining  me  with  your  smile, — and  so 

293 


do  you  proceed  till  you  have  fairly  got  me  alone 
with  you  between  four  stone  walls :  and  now 
then  ?  Let  this  farce,  this  chatter  end  now — 
what  is  it  you  want  with  me  ? 

Monsignor.   Ugo  .   .   . 

Intendant.  From  the  instant  you  arrived,  I  felt 
your  smile  on  me  as  you  questioned  me  about 
this  and  the  other  article  in  those  papers — why 
your  brother  should  have  given  me  this  villa,  that 
podere, — and  your  nod  at  the  end  meant, — what  ? 

Monsignor.  Possibly  that  I  wished  for  no  loud 
talk  here  :  if  once  you  set  me  coughing,  Ugo  ! — 

Intendant.  I  have  your  brother's  hand  and  seal 
to  all  I  possess :  now  ask  me  what  for !  what 
service  I  did  him — ask  me ! 

Mon.fignor.  I  had  better  not — I  should  rip  up 
old  disgraces — let  out  my  poor  brother's  weak- 
nesses. By  the  way,  Maffeo  of  Forli,  (which,  I 
forgot  to  observe,  is  your  true  name)  was  the 
interdict  ever  taken  off  you,  for  robbing  that 
church  at  Cesena  ? 

Intendant.  No,  nor  needs  be  —  for  when  I 
murdered  your  brother's  friend,  Pasquale,  for 
him  .  .  . 

MoHsignor.  Ah,  he  employed  you  in  that 
business,  did  he  ?  Well,  I  must  let  you  keep,  as 
you  say,  this  villa  and  that  podere,  for  fear  the 
294 


world  should  find  out  my  relations  were  of  so 
indifferent  a  stamp  !  Maffeo,  my  family  is  the 
oldest  in  Messina,  and  century  after  century  have 
my  progenitors  gone  on  polluting  themselves 
with  every  wickedness  under  Heaven  :  my  own 
father  .  .  .  rest  his  soul ! — I  have,  I  know,  a 
chapel  to  support  that  it  may  rest :  my  dear  two 
dead  brothers  were, — what  you  know  tolerably 
well ;  I,  the  youngest,  might  have  rivalled  them 
in  vice,  if  not  in  wealth,  but  from  my  boyhood 
I  came  out  from  among  them,  and  so  am  not 
partaker  of  their  plagues.  My  glory  springs 
from  another  source ;  or  if  from  this,  by  contrast 
only, — for  I,  the  bishop,  am  the  brother  of  your 
employers,  Ugo.  I  hope  to  repair  some  of  their 
wrong,  however ;  so  far  as  my  brother's  ill-gotten 
treasure  reverts  to  me,  I  can  stop  the  con- 
sequences of  his  crime ;  and  not  one  soldo  shall 
escape  me.  Maffeo,  the  sword  we  quiet  men 
spurn  away,  you  shrewd  knaves  pick  up  and 
commit  murders  with ;  what  opportunities  the 
virtuous  forgo,  the  villainous  seize.  Because,  to 
pleasure  myself,  apart  from  other  considerations, 
my  food  would  be  millet-cake,  my  dress  sackcloth, 
and  my  couch  straw, — am  I  therefore  to  let  you, 
the  off-scouring  of  the  earth,  seduce  the  poor  and 
ignorant,  by  appropriating  a  pomp  these  will  be 
295 


sure  to  think  lessens  the  abominations  so  un- 
accountably and  exclusively  associated  with  it  ? 
Must  I  let  villas  and  pod <•  rex  go  to  you,  a  murderer 
and  thief,  that  you  may  beget  by  means  of  them 
other  murderers  and  thieves?  No  ...  if  my 
cough  would  but  allow  me  to  speak ! 

fn/oidaiit.  What  am  I  to  expect  ?  You  are 
going  to  punish  me  ? 

Monsignor.  Must  punish  you,  Maflfeo.  I  cannot 
afford  to  cast  away  a  chance.  I  have  whole 
centuries  of  sin  to  redeem,  and  only  a  month  or 
two  of  life  to  do  it  in  !  How  should  I  dare  to 
say  .  .  . 

Intcndaiit.  "  Forgive  us  our  trespasses  "- 

Moiitii<rno>:  My  friend,  it  is  because  I  avow 
myself  a  very  worm,  sinful  beyond  measure,  that 
I  reject  a  line  of  conduct  you  would  applaud, 
perhaps  :  shall  I  proceed,  as  it  were,  a-pardoning  ? 
— I  ? — who  have  no  symptom  of  reason  to  assume 
that  aught  less  than  my  strenuousest  efforts  will 
keep  myself  out  of  mortal  sin,  much  less,  keep 
others  out.  No — I  do  trespass,  but  will  not 
double  that  by  allowing  you  to  trespass. 

Iiitendmit.  And  suppose  the  villas  are  not  your 
brother's  to  give,  nor  yours  to  take  ?  Oh,  you 
are  hasty  enough  just  now  ! 

Monsigiior.  1,  2 — No.  .3! — ay,  can  you  read  the 
296 


substance  of  a  letter,  No.  3,  I  have  received  from 
Rome?  It  is  precisely  on  the  ground  there 
mentioned,  of  the  suspicion  I  have  that  a  certain 
child  of  my  late  elder  brother,  who  would  have 
succeeded  to  his  estates,  was  murdered  in  infancy 
by  you,  Maffeo,  at  the  instigation  of  my  late 
brother — that  the  Pontiff  enjoins  on  me  not 
merely  the  bringing  that  Maffeo  to  condign 
punishment,  but  the  taking  all  pains,  as  guardian 
of  that  infant's  heritage  for  the  Church,  to  re- 
cover it  parcel  by  parcel,  howsoever,  whensoever, 
and  wheresoever.  While  you  are  now  gnawing 
those  fingers,  the  police  are  engaged  in  sealing 
up  your  papers,  Maffeo,  and  the  mere  raising  my 
voice  brings  my  people  from  the  next  room  to 
dispose  of  yourself.  But  I  want  you  to  confess 
quietly,  and  save  me  raising  my  voice.  Why, 
man,  do  I  not  know  the  old  story  ?  The  heir 
between  the  succeeding  heir,  and  that  heir's 
ruffianly  instrument,  and  their  complot's  effect, 
and  the  life  of  fear  and  bribes,  and  ominous 
smiling  silence  ?  Did  you  throttle  or  stab  my 
brother's  infant  ?  Come,  now  ! 

Intendant.  So  old  a  story,  and  tell  it  no  better  ? 

When  did  such  an  instrument  ever  produce  such 

an  effect  ?     Either  the  child  smiles  in  his  face, 

or,    most    likely,  he  is  not  fool    enough    to   put 

297 


himself  in  the  employer's  power  so  thoroughly — 
the  child  is  always  ready  to  produce — as  you 
say — howsoever,  wheresoever,  and  whensoever. 

Monsignor.  Liar  ! 

Intendant.  Strike  me  ?  Ah,  so  might  a  father 
chastise !  I  shall  sleep  soundly  to-night  at  least, 
though  the  gallows  await  me  to-morrow ;  for 
what  a  life  did  I  lead  !  Carlo  of  Cesena  reminds 
me  of  his  connivance,  every  time  I  pay  his  annuity 
(which  happens  commonly  thrice  a  year).  If  I 
remonstrate,  he  will  confess  all  to  the  good  bishop 
— you! 

Mount gnor.  I  see  thro'  the  trick,  caitiff!  I 
would  you  spoke  truth  for  once ;  all  shall  be 
sifted,  however — seven  times  sifted. 

Intetulant.  And  how  my  absurd  riches  encum- 
bered me !  I  dared  not  lay  claim  to  above  half 
my  possessions.  Let  me  but  once  unbosom 
myself,  glorify  Heaven,  and  die  ! 

Sir,  you  are  no  brutal,  dastardly  idiot  like  your 
brother  I  frightened  to  death — let  us  understand 
one  another.  Sir,  I  will  make  away  with  her 
for  you — the  girl — here  close  at  hand  ;  not  the 
stupid  obvious  kind  of  killing ;  do  not  speak — 
know  nothing  of  her  or  me  !  I  see  her  every  day 
— saw  her  this  morning  :  of  course  there  is  to  be 
no  killing ;  but  at  Rome  the  courtesans  perish  off 
298 


every  three  years,  and  I  can  entice  her  thither^ — 
have,  indeed,  begun  operations  already.  There's 
a  certain  lusty,  blue-eyed,  florid-complexioned, 
English  knave  I  and  the  police  employ  occasion- 
ally.— You  assent,  I  perceive — no,  that's  not  it — 
assent  I  do  not  say — but  you  will  let  me  convert 
my  present  havings  and  holdings  into  cash,  and 
give  me  time  to  cross  the  Alps  ?  'Tis  but  a 
little  black-eyed,  pretty  singing  Felippa,  gay 
silk-winding  girl.  I  have  kept  her  out  of  harm's 
way  up  to  this  present ;  for  I  always  intended  to 
make  your  life  a  plague  to  you  with  her !  'Tis 
as  well  settled  once  and  for  ever :  some  women  I 
have  procured  will  pass  Bluphocks,  my  handsome 
scoundrel,  off  for  somebody ;  and  once  Pippa 
entangled  ! — you  conceive  ?  Through  her  singing? 
Is  it  a  bargain  ? 

[From  without  is  heard  the  voice  of  PIPPA, 
singing — 

Over-head  the  tree-tops  meet — 
Flowers  and  grass  spring  'neath  one's  feet — 
There  was  nought  above  me,  and  nought  below, 
My  childhood  had  not  learned  to  know  ! 
For,  what  are  the  voices  of  birds 
— Ay,  and  of  beasts, — but  words — our  words, 
Only  so  much  more  sweet  ? 
299 


The  knowledge  of  thai  iritJi  my  life  begun  ! 

But  I  had  so  near  made  out  the  sun, 

And  counted  if  our  .stars,  the  Seven  and  One, 

Like  thejlngers  of  my  /Kind  : 

AV///,  I  could  all  but  understand 

Wherefore  through  heaven  tlie  irlnte  moon  ranges  ; 

And  just  it'lit'ii  out  of  her  soft  Jifty  changes 

Xo  unfamiliar  face  might  overlook  me — 

Suddenly  God  took  me  ! 

[PIPPA  passes. 

Monsignor.  [Springing  upJ\  My  people — one 
and  all — all — within  there  !  Gag  this  villain — 
tie  him  hand  and  foot !  He  dares — I  know  not 
half  he  dares — but  remove  him — quick  !  Miserere 
mei,  Doinine  !  Quick,  I  say  ! 

PIPPA'S  Chamber  again.     She  enters  it. 

The  bee  with  his  comb, 

The  mouse  at  her  dray, 

The  grub  in  its  tomb, 

Wile  winter  away  ; 

But  the  fire-fly  and  hedge-shrew  and  lob-worm,  I 

pray, 

How  fare  they  ? 

Ha,  ha,  best  thanks  for  your  counsel,  my  Zanze — 
"  Feast  upon  lampreys,  quaff  the  Breganze  "- 
300 


The  summer  of  life's  so  easy  to  spend, 

And  care  for  to-morrow  so  soon  put  away ! 

But  winter  hastens  at  summer's  end, 

And  fire-fly,  hedge-shrew,  lob-worm,  pray, 

How  fare  they  ? 

No  bidding  me  then  to  ...  what  did  she  say  ? 

"  Pare  your  nails  pearl  wise,  get  your  small  feet 

shoes 
'••  More  like  .   .   .  (what  said  she  ?) — and  less  like 

canoes — " 

How  pert  that  girl  was ! — would  I  be  those  pert 
Impudent  staring  women!  it  had  done  me, 
However,  surely  no  such  mighty  hurt 
To  learn  his  name  who  passed  that  jest  upon  me : 
No  foreigner,  that  I  can  recollect, 
Came,  as  she  says,  a  month  since,  to  inspect 
Our  silk-mills — none   with  blue   eyes    and    thick 

rings 

Of  English-coloured  hair,  at  all  events. 
Well — if  old  Luca  keep  his  good  intents, 
We  shall  do  better :  see  what  next  year  brings  ! 
I  may  buy  shoes,  my  Zanze,  not  appear 
More  destitute  than  you,  perhaps,  next  year ! 
Bluph  .  .  .  something!    I  had  caught  the  uncouth 

name 

But  for  Monsignor's  people's  sudden  clatter 
Above  us — bound  to  spoil  such  idle  chatter 
301 


As  ours ;  it  were,  indeed,  a  serious  matter 
If  silly  talk  like  ours  should  put  to  shame 
The  pious  man,  the  man  devoid  of  blame, 
The  .   .  .  ah,  but — ah,  but,  all  the  same, 
No  mere  mortal  has  a  right 
To  carry  that  exalted  air  ; 
Best  people  are  not  angels  quite — 
While — not  the  worst  of  people's  doings  scare 
The  devils ;  so  there's  that  proud  look  to  spare  ! 
Which  is  mere  counsel  to  myself,  mind !  for 
I  have  just  been  the  holy  Monsignor ! 
And  I  was  you  too,  Luigi's  gentle  mother, 
And  you  too,  Luigi ! — how  that  Luigi  started 
Out  of  the  Turret — doubtlessly  departed 
On  some  good  errand  or  another, 
For  he  past  just  now  in  a  traveller's  trim, 
And  the  sullen  company  that  prowled 
About  his  path,  I  noticed,  scowled 
As  if  they  had  lost  a  prey  in  him. 
And  I  was  Jules  the  sculptor's  bride, 
And  I  was  Ottima  beside, 
And  now  what  am  I  ? — tired  of  fooling  ! 
Day  for  folly,  night  for  schooling  ! 
New  year's  day  is  over  and  spent, 
111  or  well,  I  must  be  content ! 
Even  my  lily's  asleep,  I  vow  : 
Wake  up — here's  a  friend  I've  pluckt  you  ! 
302 


See — call  this  flower  a  heart's-ease  now  ! 
And  something  rare,  let  me  instruct  you, 
Is  this — with  petals  triply  swollen, 
Three  times  spotted,  thrice  the  pollen, 
While  the  leaves  and  parts  that  witness 
The  old  proportions  and  their  fitness 
Here  remain,  unchanged,  unmoved  now — 
So  call  this  pampered  thing  improved  now ! 
Suppose  there's  a  king  of  the  flowers 
And  a    girl-show  held  in  his  bowers — 
"Look  ye,  buds,  this  growth  of  ours," 
Says  he,  "  Zanze  from  the  Brenta, 
I  have  made  her  gorge  polenta 
Till  both  cheeks  are  near  as  bouncing 
As  her  .   .   .  name  there's  no  pronouncing ! 
See  this  heightened  colour  too — 
For  she  swilled  Breganze  wine 
Till  her  nose  turned  deep  carmine — 
'Twas  but  white  when  wild  she  grew ! 
And  only  by  this  Zanze's  eyes 
Of  which  we  could  not  change  the  size, 
The  magnitude  of  what's  achieved 
Otherwise,  may  be  perceived  !  " 
Oh  Avhat  a  drear,  dark  close  to  my  poor  day ! 
How  could  that  red  sun  drop  in  that  black  cloud  ! 
Ah,  Pippa,  morning's  rule  is  moved  away, 
Dispensed  with,  never  more  to  be  allowed, 
3°3 


Day's  turn  is  over — now  arrives  the  night's — 

Oh,  Lark,  be  day's  apostle 

To  mavis,  merle  and  throstle, 

Bid  them  their  betters  jostle 

Fnun  day  and  its  delights! 

But    at    night,    brother     Howlet,    far    over    the 

woods, 

Toll  the  world  to  thy  chantry — 
Sing  to  the  bats'  sleek  sisterhoods 
Full  complines  with  gallantry — 
Then,  owls  and  bats,  cowls  and  twats. 
Monks  and  nuns,  in  a  cloister's  moods, 
Adjourn  to  the  oak-stump  pantry  ! 

\After  she  has  begini  to  undress  herself. 
Now,  one  thing  I  should  like  really  to  know : 
How  near  I  ever  might  approach  all  these 
I  only  fancied  being,  this  long  day — 
— Approach,  I  mean,  so  as  to  touch  them — so 
As  to  ...  in  some  way  .  .  .  move  them — if  you 

please, 

Do  good  or  evil  to  them  some  slight  way. 
For  instance,  if  I  wind 
Silk  to-morrow,  my  silk  may  bind 

[Sitting  on  the  hcd.sidc. 
And  broider  Ottima's  cloak's  hem — 
Ah,  me  and  my  important  part  with  them, 
This  morning's  hymn  half  promised  when  I  rose  ! 
3°4 


True  in  some  sense  or  other,  I  suppose, 
Though  I  passed  by  them  all,  and  felt  no  sign. 

[As  she  lies  down. 

God  bless  me !     I  can  pray  no  more  to-night. 
No  doubt,  some  way  or  other,  hymns  say  right. 

All  service  is  the  same  with  God — 

With  God,  whose  puppets,  best  and  worst, 

Are  we  :  there  is  no  last  norjirst. — 

[She  sleeps. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


3°5 


BOOK   VII 
THE    BOOK    OF    MEMORY 


3°7 


My  Lost  Youth       o         *£>         •&>•         o         * 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea  ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 

Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 

3°9 


It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free  ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill ; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still  : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

310 


I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods  ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighbourhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still  : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  schoolboy's  brain  ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 

Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 


Sings  on,  and  is  never  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart 

weak, 

And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And     the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  1  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town  ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known 

street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 
thoughts." 

312 


And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again, 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And    the    thoughts    of    youth    are    long,    long 

thoughts." 

LONGFELLOW. 


There  was  a  Boy     -G*         o         o         ^>         <?• 

THERE  was  a  boy  ;  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 
And  islands  of  Winander  !  many  a  time, 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glimmering  lake ; 
And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 
Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 
That  they  might  answer  him. — And  they  would 
shout 

3'3 


Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 

Responsive  to  his  call, — with  quivering  peals, 

And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud 

Redoubled  and  redoubled  ;  concourse  wild 

Of  mirth  and  jocund  din  !     And,  when  it  chanced 

That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mocked  his  skill, 

Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 

Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 

Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 

Of  mountain  torrents  ;  or  the  visible  scene 

Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 

With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 

Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 

Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

This  boy  was  taken  from  his  mates,  and  died 
In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years  old. 
Fair  is  the  spot,  most  beautiful  the  vale 
Where    he    was    born :    the    grassy    churchyard 

hangs 

Upon  a  slope  above  the  village  school ; 
And  through  that  churchyard  when  my  way  has 

led 

At  evening,  I  believe  that  oftentimes 
A  long  half-hour  together  I  have  stood 
Mute — looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he  lies ! 

\VoHDSWORTH. 

314 


BREAK,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold  grey  stones,  O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

TENNYSON. 

Three  Years  She  Grew       •&•         *£>         ^>         -o- 

THREE  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower. 
Then  nature  said,  "  A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  lady  of  my  own. 

315 


"  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  :  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  : 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

"  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 


"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 

While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  nature  spake — the  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run ! 
She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene  ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 

WORDSWORTH. 


WHEN     to    the    sessions    of    sweet    silent 
thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with   old    woes    now    wail    my   dear   time's 

waste  : 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since  cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight : 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
3*7 


The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


Surprised  by  Joy    o         •&•         o         *£>         o 

^^  URPRISED  by  joy,  impatient  as  the  wind, 
>v_J      I   turned  to  share  the  transport — Oh  !  with 

whom 

But  thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find ! 
Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my  mind — 
But   how   could   I  forget   thee? — Through   what 

power, 

Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 
To    my    most    grievous    loss? — That    thought's 

return 

Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore, 
Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 
Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more  : 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 
Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 

WORDSWORTH. 


A  Song         <?•         -o         o         o         -o         o 

TEARS,   idle   tears,   I   know    not    what   they 
mean, 

Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square  ; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

TENNYSON. 
319 


Rose  Aylmer  <^>         o         o         & 

AH,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 
Ah,  what  the  form  divine ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace, 
Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

LANDOR. 

Ye  Banks  and  Braes  0         o         o 

YE  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair ! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care ! 

Thou' It  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough, 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 

Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na'  o'  my  fate. 
320 


Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve  ; 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree  ; 
And  my  fause  lover  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

BURNS. 


Night-thoughts       o         *o         o         o         o 

WHEN  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 
There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away  ; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies  ; 
And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 
I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 
x  321 


And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church  like  a  ghost 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

TENNYSON. 


Echo 


OME  to  me  in  the  silence  of  the  night  ; 

Come  in  the  speaking  silence  of  a  dream  ; 
Come    with    soft    rounded    cheeks    and    eyes    as 

bright 
As  sunlight  on  a  stream  ; 

Come  back  in  tears, 
O  memory,  hope,  love  of  finished  years. 

Oh  dream  how  sweet,  too  sweet,  too  bitter  sweet, 
Whose     wakening     should     have     been     in 

Paradise, 

Where  souls  brimfull  of  love  abide  and  meet  ; 
Where  thirsting  longing  eyes 

Watch  the  slow  door 
That  opening,  letting  in,  lets  out  no  more. 

Yet  come  to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  live 
My  very  life  again  though  cold  in  death  : 
322 


Come  back  to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  give 
Pulse  for  pulse,  breath  for  breath  : 

Speak  low,  lean  low, 
As  long  ago,  my  love,  how  long  ago ! 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


San  Lorenzo  Giustiniani's  Mother  •&•         •*£>• 

"And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream." — SHELLEY. 

I   HAD  not  seen  my  son's  dear  face 
(He  chose  the  cloister  by  God's  grace) 
Since  it  had  come  to  full  flower-time. 
I  hardly  guessed  at  its  perfect  prime, 
That  folded  flower  of  his  dear  face. 

Mine  eyes  were  veiled  by  mists  of  tears 

When  on  a  day  in  many  years 

One  of  his  Order  came.     I  thrilled, 
Facing,  I  thought,  that  face  fulfilled. 

I  doubted,  for  my  mists  of  tears. 

His  blessing  be  with  me  for  ever ! 

My  hope  and  doubt  were  hard  to  sever. 

— That  altered  face,  those  holy  weeds. 

I  filled  his  wallet  and  kissed  his  beads, 
And  lost  his  echoing  feet  for  ever. 
323 


If  to  my  son  my  alms  were  given 
I  know  not,  and  I  wait  for  Heaven. 

He  did  not  plead  for  child  of  mine, 

But  for  another  Child  divine, 
And  unto  Him  it  was  surely  given. 

There  is  One  alone  who  cannot  change  ; 
Dreams  are  we,  shadows,  visions  strange  ; 

And  all  I  give  is  given  to  One. 

I  might  mistake  my  dearest  son, 
But  never  the  Son  who  cannot  change. 

ALICE  MEYXELL. 


In  Memoriam 


BE  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 
When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the  nerves 

prick 

And  tingle ;  and  the  heart  is  sick, 
And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 

Is  rack'd  with  pangs  that  conquer  trust ; 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattering  dust, 

And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 
324 


Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 

And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and  sing 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away, 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


n. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide  ? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame 

And  I  be  lessen'd  in  his  love  ? 

I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  : 

Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  ? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death 

The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro'. 

325 


He  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall  : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


in. 

When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 

And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush  ; 
Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March  ; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers  ; 
The  hope  of  unaccomplish'd  years 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer's  hourly-mellowing  change 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet, 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange  ; 

Come  :  not  in  watches  of  the  night, 

But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth  warm, 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form, 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 
326 


IV. 

I  shall  not  see  thee.     Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land 

Where  first  he  walk'd  when  claspt  in  clay  ? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 

But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb  ; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold -com  plicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter  ;  hear 

The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to  name 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 


By  night  we  linger'd  on  the  lawn, 
For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry ; 
And  genial  warmth ;  and  o'er  the  sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn  ; 
327 


And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  burn 

Unwavering  :  not  a  cricket  chirr'd  . 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard, 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies, 
And  wheel'd  or  lit  the  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes ; 

While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that  peal'd 

From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd  at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 

Withdrew  themselves  from  me  and  night, 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  my  heart ;  I  read 

Of  that  glad  year  which  once  had  been, 

In  those  fall'n  leaves  which  kept  their  green, 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead  : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 

The  silent-speaking  words,  and  strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth  ;  and  strangely  spoke 
328 


The  faith,  the  vigour,  bold  to  dwell 

On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward  back, 
And  keen  thro'  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line, 

The  dead  man  touch'd  me  from  the  past, 
And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

The  living  soul  was  flash'd  on  mine, 

And  mine  in  this  was  wound,  and  whirl'd 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought, 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and  caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

yEonian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time — the  shocks  of  Chance — 
The  blows  of  Death.     At  length  my  trance 

Was  cancell'd,  stricken  thro'  with  doubt. 

Vague  words !  but  ah,  hoAV  hard  to  frame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  speech, 
Or  ev'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became  : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal'd 

The  knolls  once  more  where,  couch'd  at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field  : 

329 


And  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 

Rock'd  the  full-foliaged  elms,  and  swung 
The  heavy -folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said 

"  The  dawn,  the  dawn,"  and  died  away ; 
And  East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and  death, 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 

TENNYSON. 


33° 


BOOK   VIII 
STEPPING    WESTWARD 


Stepping  Westward  <o         o         ^>         o 

[While  my  fellow-traveller  and  I  were  walking  by  the  side 
of  Loch  Katrine,  one  fine  evening  after  sunset,  in  our  road 
to  a  hut  where,  in  the  course  of  our  tour,  we  had  been 
hospitably  entertained  some  weeks  before,  we  met,  in  one 
of  the  loneliest  parts  of  that  solitary  region,  two  well-dressed 
women,  one  of  whom  said  to  us,  by  way  of  greeting,  "  What  ! 
you  are  stepping  westward  ?  "] 

"   J  /f  7"  HAT!  you  are  stepping  westward?" 

I/ I/       —"Yea" 
'Twould  be  a  wildish  destiny,, 
If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 
In  a  strange  land,  and  far  from  home, 
Were  in  this  place  the  guests  of  chance : 
Yet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance, 
Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none, 
With  such  a  sky  to  lead  him  on  ? 

The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold  ; 
Behind,  all  gloomy  to  behold  ; 
333 


And  stepping  westward  seemed  to  be 
A  kind  of  heavenly  destiny  ; 
I  liked  the  greeting ;  'twas  a  sound 
Of  something  without  place  or  bound  ; 
And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 
To  travel  through  that  region  bright. 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  who  spake 

Was  walking  by  her  native  lake  : 

The  salutation  had  to  me 

The  very  sound  of  courtesy  : 

Its  power  was  felt ;  and  while  my  eye 

Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  sky, 

The  echo  of  the  voice  inwrought 

A  human  sweetness  with  the  thought 

Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 

Before  me  in  my  endless  way. 

WORDSWORTH. 


Friends  in  Paradise  o         -£>         •&•         o 

r  I  AHEY  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light ! 

JL      And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear : — 
334 


It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 

Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days  : 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope !  and  high  Humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above ! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  shewed  them 
me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear  beauteous  Death  !  the  Jewel  of  the  Just, 
Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark ; 

What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest,  may 
know 

At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown ; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

335 


And  yet,  as  Angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep ; 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted 

themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

H.  VAUGHAN. 


The  Hound  of  Heaven      o         o         o         •&> 

I    FLED  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the 
days ; 

I  fled  Him,  down  the  arches  of  the  years  ; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 

Of  my  own  mind  ;  and  in  the  mist  of  tears 
I  hid  from  Him,  and  under  running  laughter. 
Up  vistaed  hopes  I  sped  ; 
And  shot,  precipitated 
Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears, 

From  those  strong  Feet  that  followed,  followed 
after. 

But  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 
They  beat — and  a  Voice  beat 
More  instant  than  the  Feet — 
"All  things  betray  thee,  who  betrayest  Me." 
336 


I  pleaded,  outlaw- wise, 
By  many  a  hearted  casement,  curtained  red, 

Trellised  with  intertwining  charities  ; 
(For,  though  I  knew  His  love  Who  followed, 

Yet  was  I  sore  adread 

Lest,  having  Him,  I  must  have  naught  beside) 
But,  if  one  little  casement  parted  wide, 

The  gust  of  His  approach  would  clash  it  to. 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade,  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Across  the  margent  of  the  world  I  fled, 

And  troubled  the  gold  gateways  of  the  stars, 
Smiting  for  shelter  on  their  clanged  bars  ; 

Fretted  to  dulcet  jars 

And  silvern  chatter  the  pale  ports  o'  the  moon, 
I  said  to  dawn  :  Be  sudden — to  eve  :  Be  soon  ; 
With  thy  young  skiey  blossoms  heap  me  over 

From  this  tremendous  Lover  ! 
Float  thy  vague  veil  about  me,  lest  He  see  ! 

I  tempted  all  His  servitors,  but  to  find 
My  own  betrayal  in  their  constancy, 
In  faith  to  Him  their  fickleness  to  me, 

Their  traitorous  trueness,  and  their  loyal  deceit. 
To  all  swift  things  for  swiftness  did  I  sue ; 
Clung  to  the  whistling  mane  of  every  wind. 

But  whether  they  swept,  smoothly  fleet, 
The  long  savannahs  of  the  blue  ; 

Or  whether,  Thunder-driven, 
Y  337 


They  clanged  his  chariot  'thwart  a  heaven, 
Flashy  with  flying  lightnings  round  the  spurn  o' 

their  feet : — 

Fear  wist  not  to  evade  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Still  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 
Came  on  the  following  Feet, 
And  a  Voice  above  their  beat — 
"Naught     shelters     thee,     who     wilt     not 
shelter  Me." 

I  sought  no  more  that  after  which  I  strayed 

In  face  of  man  or  maid  ; 
But  still  within  the  little  children's  eyes 

Seems  something,  something  that  replies, 
They  at  least  are  for  me,  surely  for  me  ! 
I  turned  me  to  them  very  wistfully  ; 
But  just  as  their  young  eyes  grew  sudden  fair 

With  dawning  answer  there, 
Their    angel    plucked    them    from    me    by    the 

hair. 

"  Come  then,  ye  other  children,  Nature's — share 
With  me  "  (said  I)  "your  delicate  fellowship  ; 

Let  me  greet  you  lip  to  lip, 

Let  me  twine  with  you  caresses. 
Wantoning 

338 


With  our  Lady-Mother's  vagrant  tresses, 

Banqueting 

With  her  in  her  wind-walled  palace, 
Underneath  her  azured  dais 
Quaffing,  as  your  taintless  way  is, 

From  a  chalice 
Lucent-weeping  out  of  the  dayspring." 

So  it  was  done  : 

/  in  their  delicate  fellowship  was  one — 
Drew  the  bolt  of  Nature's  secrecies. 
I  knew  all  the  swift  importings 
On  the  wilful  face  of  skies  ; 
I  knew  how  the  clouds  arise 
Spumed  of  the  wild  sea-snortings  ; 

All  that's  born  or  dies 

Rose  and  drooped  with — made  them  shapers 
Of  mine  own  moods,  or  wailful  or  divine — 
With  them  joyed  and  was  bereaven. 
I  was  heavy  with  the  even, 
When  she  lit  her  glimmering  tapers 
Round  the  day's  dead  sanctities. 
I  laughed  in  the  morning's  eyes. 
I  triumphed  and  I  saddened  with  all  weather, 

Heaven  and  I  wept  together, 
And  its  sweet  tears  were  salt  with  mortal  mine ; 
Against  the  red  throb  of  its  sunset-heart 
I  laid  my  own  to  beat, 
339 


And  share  commingling  heat ; 
But  not  by  that,  by  that,  was  eased  my  human 

smart. 

In  vain  my  tears  were  wet  on  Heaven's  grey  cheek. 
For  ah  !  we  know  not  what  each  other  says, 
These  things  and  I  ;  in  sound  /  speak — 
Their   sound    is    but    their    stir,    they    speak    by 

silences. 
Nature,  poor  stepdame,  cannot  slake  my  drouth ; 

Let  her,  if  she  would  owe  me, 
Drop  yon  blue  bosom-veil  of  sky,  and  show  me 

The  breasts  o'  her  tenderness  : 
Never  did  any  milk  of  hers  once  bless 
My  thirsting  mouth. 
Nigh  and  nigh  draws  the  chase, 
With  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy, 
And  past  those  noised  Feet 
A  Voice  comes  yet  more  fleet — 
"  Lo !  naught  contents  thee,  who  content' st 
not  Me." 

Naked  I  wait  Thy  love's  uplifted  stroke ! 

My  harness  piece  bypieceThou  hast  hewn  from  me, 

And  smitten  me  to  my  knee ; 
I  am  defencless  utterly, 
I  slept,  methinks,  and  woke, 
340 


And,  slowly  gazing,  find  me  stripped  in  sleep. 
In  the  rash  lustihead  of  my  young  powers, 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours, 
And    pulled    my    life    upon    me ;    grimed   with 

smears, 

I  stand  amid  the  dust  o'  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap, 
My  days  have  crackled  and  gone  up  in  smoke, 
Have  puffed  and  burst  as  sun-stai'ts  on  a  stream. 

Yea,  faileth  now  even  dream 
The  dreamer,  and  the  lute  the  lutanist ; 
Even  the  linked  fantasies,  in  whose  blossomy  twist 
I  swung  the  earth  a  trinket  at  my  wrist, 
Are  yielding  ;  cords  of  all  too  weak  account 
For  earth  with  heavy  griefs  so  overplussed. 

Ah  !  is  Thy  love  indeed 
A  weed,  albeit  an  amaranthine  weed, 
Suffering  no  flowers  except  its  own  to  mount  ? 

Ah !  must — 

Designer  infinite ! — 
Ah  !  must  Thou  char  the  wood  ere  Thou  canst 

limn  with  it  ? 
My  freshness  spent   its  wavering   shower  i'   the 

dust ; 

And  now  my  heart  is  as  a  broken  fount, 
Wherein  tear-drippings  stagnate,  spilt  down  ever 

From  the  dank  thoughts  that  shiver 


Upon  the  sighful  branches  of  my  mind. 

Such  is  ;  what  is  to  be  ? 

The  pulp  so  bitter,  how  shall  taste  the  rind  ? 
I  dimly  guess  what  Time  in  mists  confounds  : 
Yet  ever  and  anon  a  trumpet  sounds 
From  the  hid  battlements  of  Eternity, 
Those  shaken  mists  a  space  unsettle,  then 
Round    the    half-glimpsed    turrets    slowly    wash 

again ; 

But  not  ere  him  who  summoneth 
I  first  have  seen,  enwound 

With  glooming  robes  purpureal,  cypress-crowned  ; 
His  name  I  know,  and  what  his  trumpet  saith. 
Whether  man's  heart  or  life  it  be  which  yields 
Thee  harvest,  must  Thy  harvest  fields 
Be  dunged  with  rotten  death  ? 
Now  of  that  long  pursuit 
Comes  on  at  hand  the  bruit ! 
That  Voice  is  round  me  like  a  bursting  sea : 
"  And  is  thy  earth  so  marred, 
Shattered  in  shard  on  shard  ? 
Lo,  all  things  fly  thee,  for  thou  fliest  M< 

"  Strange,  piteous,  futile  thing  ! 
Wherefore  should  any  set  thee  love  apart  ? 
Seeing  none  but  I  makes  much  of  naught "  (He 
said), 

342 


"  And  human  love  needs  human  meriting  : 

How  hast  thou  merited — 
Of  all  man's  clotted  clay  the  dingiest  clot  ? 

Alack,  thou  knowest  not 
How  little  worthy  of  any  love  thou  art  ! 
Whom  wilt  thou  find  to  love  ignoble  thee, 

Save  Me,  save  only  Me  ? 
All  which  I  took  from  thee  I  did  but  take, 

Not  for  thy  harms, 
But  just  that  thou  might' st  seek  it  in  My  arms. 

All  which  thy  child's  mistake 
Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  stored  for  thee  at  home  : 

Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come." 

Halts  by  me  that  footfall : 

Is  my  gloom,  after  all, 
Shade  of  His  hand,  oustretched  caressingly  ? 

"  Ah,  fondest,  blindest,  weakest, 

I  am  He  Whom  thou  seekest ! 
Thou   dravest  love   from   thee,  who  dravest 

Me." 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 

THY  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  ; 
I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun. 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 
343 


What  art  thou  then  ?  I  cannot  guess  ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  Hower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power. 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before  ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 

Tho'  inix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh  ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice ; 

1  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 

TENNYSON. 


Up-hill         *&•         "O-         -£>         •&         o         o 

DOES  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  : 
Yes,  to  the  very  end. 

Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day  ? 
From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place  ? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face  ? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 
344 


Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight  ? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


Requiescat  «£>•         ^>         *o         o         o 

STREW  on  her  roses,  roses, 
And  never  a  spray  of  yew  ! 
In  quiet  she  reposes  ; 

Ah  !  would  that  I  did  too  ! 

Her  mirth  the  world  required  ; 

She  bath'd  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 

And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 
In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound. 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

345 


Her  cabin'd,  ample  spirit, 

It  flutter'd  and  f'ail'd  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  hall  of  death. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


Fidele 


FEAR  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages  : 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke ; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone  ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan  : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

SlIAKF.Sl'EARE. 
346 


A  Grave       o         o         •*&•         o         o         o 

THERE,  through  the    long,  long    summer 
hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  lovre-tale,  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife-bee  and  humming  bird. 

And  what,  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon, 

Come,  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show  ; 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow  ; 
347 


Hut  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 

The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs  and  song,  and  light  and  bloom, 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 

These  to  their  soften 'd  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
The  gladness  of  the  scene  ; 

Whose  part  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 

Is  —    —  that  his  grave  is  green  ; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 

BRYANT. 

The  Scholar-Gipsy  •£>         •£>         <G>-         •&<         *&• 

"  There  was  very  lately  a  lad  in  the  University  of  Oxford, 
who  was  by  his  poverty  forced  to  leave  his  studies  there,  and 
at  last  to  join  himself  to  a  company  of  vagabond  gipsies. 
Among  these  extravagant  people,  by  the  insinuating  subtilty 
of  his  carriage,  he  quickly  got  so  much  of  their  love  and 
esteem  as  that  they  discovered  to  him  their  mystery.  After 
he  had  been  a  pretty  while  exercised  in  the  trade,  there 
chanced  to  ride  by  a  couple  of  scholars,  who  had  formerly 
been  of  his  acquaintance.  They  quickly  spied  out  their  old 
friend  among  the  gipsies ;  and  he  gave  them  an  account  of 
the  necessity  which  drove  him  to  that  kind  of  life,  and  told 

348 


them  that  the  people  he  went  with  were  not  such  impostors 
as  they  were  taken  for,  but  that  they  had  a  traditional  kind 
of  learning  among  them,  and  could  do  wonders  by  the 
power  of  imagination,  their  fancy  binding  that  of  others  : 
that  himself  had  learned  much  of  their  art,  and  when  he  had 
compassed  the  whole  secret,  he  intended,  he  said,  to  leave 
their  company,  and  give  the  world  an  account  of  what  he 
had  learned." — Glanvil's  Vanity  of  Dogmatising,  1661. 

GO,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the  hill ; 
Go,  shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes  ! 
No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed, 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats, 
Nor  the  cropped  herbage  shoot  another  head. 

But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest, 
And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 
Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon-blanched 

green, 
Come,  shepherd,  and  again  begin  the  quest ! 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late — 
In    this    high    field's    dark   corner,    where    he 

leaves 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen  cruse, 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves, 
Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores  to 

use — 

Here  will  I  sit  and  wait, 
349 


While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 
The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne, 
With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 

Screen'd  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reaped 

field, 

And  here  till  sun-clown,  shepherd  !  will  I  be. 
Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies 

peep. 

And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 
Pale  pink  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep  ; 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their  scent,  and  rustle   down   their  perfumed 

showers 

Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid, 
And  bower  me  from   the   August    sun   with 

shade ; 

And    the    eye    travels    down    to    Oxford's 
towers. 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again ! 

The  story  of  the  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 
Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  preferment's  door, 
One  summer  morn  forsook 

35° 


His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gipsy  lore, 
And  roamed  the  world  with  that  wild  brother- 
hood 
And  came,  as  most   men  deemed,   to  little 

good, 

But    came   to   Oxford  and   his   friends  no 
more. 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country  lanes, 
Two  scholars,  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew, 

Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  inquired  ; 
Whereat  he  answered,  that  the  gipsy  crew, 
His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired 

The  workings  of  men's  brains. 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they 

will, 

"  And  I,"  he  said,  "  the  secret  of  their  art, 
When  fully  learned,  will  to  the  world  impart : 
But  it  needs  heaven-sent  moments  for  this 
skill." 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  returned  no  more. — 
But  rumours  hung  about  the  country  side, 

That  the  lost  scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray, 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue  tied, 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  grey, 
The  same  the  gipsies  wore. 
351 


Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring  ; 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors, 
On  the  warm  ingle  bench,  the  smock-frocked 

boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering, 

But,  'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly. 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks, 
And  put   the   shepherds,  wanderer !  on   thy 

trace ; 

And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare  the  rooks 
I  ask  if  thou  hast  passed  their  quiet  place  ; 

Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 

Moored  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer  heats, 
'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine 

fills, 
And  watch  the  warm,  green-muffled  Cumner 

Hills, 

And   wonder   if  thou    haunt'st   their   shy 
retreats. 

For  most,  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  ground. 
Thee  at  the  ferry  Oxford  riders  blithe, 

Returning  home  on  summer  nights,  have  met 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab-lock-hithe, 
Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet, 
As  the  punt's  rope  chops  round  ; 
352 


And  leaning  backward  in  a  pensive  dream, 
And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 
Plucked  in  shy  fields  and  distant  Wychwood 

bowers, 

And   thine    eyes    resting    on    the    moonlit 
stream. 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more ! — 
Maidens,  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 

To  dance  around  the  Fy field  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee 

roam, 
Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way. 

Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers — the  frail-leaf'd,  white  anemone, 
Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with  dews  of  summer 

eves, 

And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves — 
But  none  hath  words  she  can  report  of  thee. 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay-time's  here 

In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames, 

Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy 

grass 

Where  black-winged  swallows  haunt  the  glitter- 
ing Thames, 

To  bathe  in  the  abandon'd  lasher  pass, 
Have  often  passed  thee  near 

z  353 


Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown  ; 

Marked  thy  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 
Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air — 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou 
wast  gone. 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  Hills, 
Where  at  her  open  door  the  housewife  darns, 
Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 
Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and 

late 

For  cresses  from  the  rills, 
Have  known  thee  eyeing,  all  an  April  day, 
The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine  ; 
And  marked  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out 

and  shine 

Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow 
away. 

In  autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  wood — 
Where  most  the  gipsies  by  the  turf-edged  way 
Pitch  their  smoked  tents,  and   every  bush 

you  see 

With  scarlet  patches  tagged  and  shreds  of  grey, 
Above  the  forest  ground  called  Thessaly — 
The  blackbird,  picking  food 
354 


Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears  at  all ; 
So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray 
Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  withered  spray, 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  heaven  to 
fall. 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 

Where    home     through    flooded    fields    foot  - 

travellers  go, 

Have  I  not  passed  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge 

Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow, 

Thy   face   tow'rd    Hinksey    and    its    wintry 

ridge  ? 

And  thou  hast  climbed  the  hill, 
And   gained    the    white   brow  of  the   Cumner 

range ; 

Turned  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the  snow- 
flakes  fall, 
The    line    of  festal    light    in    Christ-Church 

hall- 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  sequestered 
grange. 

But   what — I   dream !      Two    hundred   years   are 

flown 

Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls, 
And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 

355 


That  thou  wert  wander'd  from  the  studious  walls 
To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  gipsy  tribe  ; 

And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid  ; 
Some  country  nook,  where  o'er  thy  unknown 

grave 
Tall    grasses     and    white    flowering    nettles 

wave — 
Under  a  dark,  red-fruited  yew-tree's  shade. 

No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours  ! 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men  ? 
'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being 

rolls  ; 

'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 
Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls 

And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  used  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen, 
And  tired  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit, 
To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 

Our  worn-out  life,  and  are — what  we  have 
been. 

Thou  hast  not  lived,  why  should'st  thou  perish  so  ? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire  ; 
Else  wert  thou  long  since  numbered  with  the 
dead  ! 

356 


Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men,  thy  fire  ! 
The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 

And  we  ourselves  shall  go  ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot, 
And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 
And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page, 
Because  thou  hadst — what  we,  alas  !  have 
not! 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 

Firm    to    their    mark,    not    spent   on    other 

things ; 

Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt, 
Which  much  to  have    tried,   in    much  been 

baffled,  brings. 
O  life  unlike  to  ours  ! 

Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope, 
Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows  for  what  he 

strives, 

And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different  lives  ; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee,  in 
hope. 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  heaven !  and  we, 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 
Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  willed, 
357 


Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds, 
Whose    vague     resolves    never    have    been 

fulfilled ; 

For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new  ; 
Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 
And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day — 
Ah  !  do  not  we,  wanderer !  await  it  too  ? 

Yes,  we  await  it ! — but  it  still  delays, 

And  then  we  suffer !  and  amongst  us  one, 
Who  most  has  suffered,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne  ; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 

Lays  bare  of  wretched  days  ; 
Tell  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs, 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed, 
Add  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and  how 

the  head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 

This  for  our  wisest !  and  we  others  pine, 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end, 
And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to  bear ; 
With  close-lipped  patience  for  our  only  friend, 
Sad  patience,  too  near  neighbour  to  despair — 
But  none  has  hope  like  thine. 
358 


Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the  woods 

dost  stray, 

Roaming  the  country  side,  a  truant  boy, 
Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 

And    every    doubt    long    blown    by    time 
away. 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames  ; 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 

Its   heads  o'ertaxed,  its  palsied   hearts,  was 

rife — 

Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear  ! 
Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood  ! 
Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From  her  false   friend's  approach  in   Hades 

turn, 
Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude  ! 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 

With  a  free,onward  impulse  brushing  through, 
By  night,  the  silver' d  branches  of  the  glade — 
Far  on  the  forest-skirts,  where  none  pursue, 
On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 

359 


1  .merge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales 
Freshen  thy  flowers  as  in  former  years 
With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightingales. 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  Hv  ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife, 
Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for 

rest ; 

And  we  should  win  thee  from  thine  own  fair  life, 
Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 

Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die, 
Thy    hopes    grow    timorous,    and    unfixed    thy 

powers, 
And   thy  clear  aims   be    cross    and   shifting 

made ; 
And   then  thy   glad   perennial  youth   would 

fade, 

Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like 
ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles ! 
— As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the  sea, 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool- hair' d  creepers  stealthily, 
•  The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 
Among  the  /Egean  isles  ; 
360 


And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 
Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine, 
Green,  bursting  figs,  and  tunnies  steeped  in 

brine  — 

And   knew   the  intruders    on   his  ancient 
home, 

The  young  light-hearted  masters  of  the  waves— 
And  snatched  his  rudder,  and  shook  out  more 

sail  ; 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 

To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  western  straits  ;  and  unbent  sails 
There,  where    down    cloudy   cliffs,  through 

sheets  of  foam, 

Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come  ; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 
MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

Remember  •&•         *G*         o         <5*         o         ^> 


EMEMBER  me  when  I  am  gone  away, 
XV     Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land  ; 

When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the  hand, 
Nor  I  half  turn  to  go  yet  turning  stay. 
361 


Remember  me  when  no  more  day  by  day 

You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you  planned  : 
Only  remember  me  ;  you  understand 

It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or  pray. 

Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while 

And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve : 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once  I  had, 

Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile 

Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 
CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


Elegy 


WRITTEN    IX   A   COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


THE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
Arid  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimm'ring  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  : 
362 


Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wand'ring  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould'ring 
heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow   twittering  from    the    straw-built 
shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 
How   bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy 
stroke ! 

363 


Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  jiower. 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour : 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  gravi-. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  mem'ry  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted 

vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  r 
Can  honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 
Hands    that    the    rod    of    empire    might    have 

swayed, 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 
364 


But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear  ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some    village     Hampden    that,    with     dauntless 
breast, 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their    growing  virtues,   but   their  crimes  con- 
fined ; 

Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 
365 


The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  Hame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With    uncouth    rhymes    and    shapeless   sculpture 

decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'   unlettered 
Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing  ling' ring  look  behind  r 
366 


On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
Ev'n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonoured  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  th'  accustomed  hill, 
Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favourite  tree ; 

Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he : 

367 


"The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array. 

Slow    through    the    church-way  path    we    saw 

him  borne, — 
Approach    and    read    (for   thou    canst    read)    the 

lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH.1 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  : 

Fair  science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear, 

He  gained  from   Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished) 
a  friend. 

1  "  Before  the  Epitaph,  Gray  originally  inserted  a  very 
beautiful  stanza,  which  was  printed  in  some  of  the  first 
editions,  but  afterwards  omitted,  because  he  thought  that 
it  was  too  long  a  parenthesis  in  this  place.  The  lines 
however,  in  themselves  demand  preservation  : 

"  'There  scattered  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 

By  hands  unseen,  are  showers  of  violets  found  ; 
The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there, 
And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground.'" 
368 


NTo  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

GRAY. 


Ode  to  Heaven       -^>         o         o         •& 

CHORUS  OF   SPIRITS. 

First  Spirit. 

T3ALACE-ROOF  of  cloudless  nights! 
-L      Paradise  of  golden  lights  ! 

Deep,  immeasurable,  vast, 
Which  art  now,  and  which  wert  then ! 

Of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
Of  the  eternal  Where  and  When, 

Presence-chamber,  temple,  home, 

Ever-canopying  dome, 

Of  acts  and  ages  yet  to  come  ! 

Glorious  shapes  have  life  in  thee, 
Earth,  and  all  earth's  company ; 

Living  globes  which  ever  throng 
Thy  deep  chasms  and  wildernesses  ; 

And  green  worlds  that  glide  along ; 

2  A  369 


And  swift  stars  with  flashing  tresses  ; 
And  icy  moons  most  cold  and  bright, 
And  mighty  suns  beyond  the  night, 
Atoms  of  intensest  light. 

Even  thy  name  is  as  a  god, 
Heaven !  for  thou  art  the  abode 

Of  that  Power  which  is  the  glass 
Wherein  man  his  nature  sees. 
Generations  as  they  pass 
Worship  thee  with  bended  knees. 

Their  unremaining  gods  and  they 

Like  a  river  roll  awav  : 

Thou  remainest  such — alway  ! — 


Second  Spirit. 

Thou  art  but  the  mind's  first  chamber, 

Round  which  its  young  fancies  clamber, 
Like  weak  insects  in  a  cave, 

Lighted  up  by  stalactites ; 
But  the  portal  of  the  grave, 

Where  a  world  of  new  delights 
Will  make  thy  best  glories  seem 
But  a  dim  and  noonday  gleam 
From  the  shadow  of  a  dream  ! 
37° 


Third  Spirit. 

Peace !  the  abyss  is  wreathed  with  scorn 
At  your  presumption,  atom-born  ! 

What  is  Heaven  ?  and  what  are  ye 
Who  its  brief  expanse  inherit  ? 

What  are  suns  and  spheres  which  flee 
With  the  instinct  of  that  Spirit 

Of  which  ye  are  but  a  part  ? 

Drops  which  Nature's  mighty  heart 

Drives  through  thinnest  veins  !     Depart ! 

What  is  Heaven  ?  a  globe  of  dew, 

Filling  in  the  morning  new 

Some  eyed  flower  whose  young  leaves  waken 

On  an  unimagined  world  : 
Constellated  suns  unshaken, 

Orbits  measureless,  are  furled 
In  that  frail  and  fading  sphere, 
With  ten  millions  gathered  there 
To  tremble,  gleam,  and  disappear. 

SHELLEY. 


A  Vision 


1 


SAW  Eternity  the  other  night 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light. 
All  calm,  as  it  was  bright : — 

371 


And    round    beneath    it.    Time,    in    hours,    days. 

years, 

Driven  by  the  spheres, 

Like  a  vast  shadow  moved ;  in  which  the  world 
And  all  her  train  were  hurled. 

H.  VAUGIIAX. 


Night 


THE  sun  descending  in  the  West, 
The  evening  star  does  shine  ; 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest, 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 
The  moon,  like  a  flower 
In  heaven's  high  bower, 
With  silent  delight, 
Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  groves. 
Where  flocks  have  took  delight. 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  moves 
The  feet  of  angels  bright ; 

Unseen,  they  pour  blessing, 

And  joy  without  ceasing, 

On  each  bud  and  blossom, 

And  each  sleeping  bosom. 
372 


They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest 
Where  birds  are  covered  warm ; 
They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm  : 
If  they  see  any  weeping 
That  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 

When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey, 
They  pitying  stand  and  weep ; 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 

But,  if  they  rush  dreadful, 

The  angels,  most  heedful, 

Receive  each  mild  spirit, 

New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 
Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold  : 
And  pitying  the  tender  cries, 
And  walking  round  the  fold : 

Saying  :  "  Wrath  by  His  meekness, 

And,  by  His  health,  sickness, 

Is  driven  away 

From  our  immortal  day. 

373 


"  And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 
I  can  lie  down  and  sleep, 
Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name, 
Graze  after  thee,  and  weep. 

For,  washed  in  life's  river, 

My  bright  mane  for  ever 

Shall  shine  like  the  gold, 

As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold." 


At  Night     >£>         *£?•         «£>         •£>         *o         •& 

HOME,  home  from  the  horizon  far  and  clear, 
Hither  the  soft  wings  sweep  ; 
Flocks  of  the  memories  of  the  day  draw  near 
The  dovecote  doors  of  sleep. 

O  which  are  they  that  come  through  sweetest 

light 

Of  all  these  homing  birds  ? 
Which    with    the    straightest    and    the    swiftest 

flight  ? 
Your  words  to  me,  your  words ! 

ALICE  MEYXELL. 
374 


In  Praise  of  Death 


RAISED  be  the  fathomless  universe 
-L       For  life  and  joy  and  for  love,  sweet  love  ! 
But  praise  !  praise  !  praise  ! 
For  the  cool  enfolding  arms 
Of  sweet  and  delicate  death. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


Prospice       <?•         o         <?•         o         o         o 

FEAR  death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 
The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote, 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe  ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though   a  battle's   to  fight  ere  the   guerdon   be 

gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 

I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 
The  best  and  the  last ! 
375 


1  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and 

forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
Xo !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my 

peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall   become  first  a  peace  out  of 

pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 
And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


Last  Lines  o         o         <>         o         <o*         o 

NO  coward  soul  is  mine, 
Xo    trembler    in    the    world's    storm- 
troubled  sphere : 
I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from  fear. 
376 


O  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity ! 

Life — that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I — undying  Life — have  power  in  Thee  ! 


Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts  :  unutterably  vain  ; 

Worthless  as  withered  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 


To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  Thine  infinity  ; 

So  surely  anchored  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality. 


With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates  and  rears. 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceased  to  be, 

And  Thou  wert  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 
•       377 


There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render  void  : 

Thou,  THOU  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And  what  Thou  art  can  never  be  destroyed. 

EMILY  BRONTR. 


378 


BOOK    IX 
THE    ETERNAL    SPRING 


379 


Ode  to  the  West  Wind 


OWILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 
being, 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 


Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  oh,  hear ! 

n. 

Thou   on   whose   stream,    'mid    the    steep   sky's 

commotion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and 

Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  :  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  aery  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst :  oh,  hear  ! 

in. 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 
382 


Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !     Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves :  oh,  hear ! 


IV. 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  Heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision  ;  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

383 


As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !     I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee  :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


v. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is  : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  o\vn  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth  ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     O,  Wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 

SHKLLEY, 
384 


Ode          ~t>          o         o         *&•          o          <?• 

INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY    FROM     RECOLLECTIONS 
OF    EARLY    CHILDHOOD. 

"The  child  is  father  of  the  man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 

THERE    was   a    time    when   meadow,  grove, 
and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 

The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  110 
more. 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
2  B  385 


The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath   passed  away  a  glory  from    tin- 
earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong  : 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep, 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong  ; 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 

Land  and  sea 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday  ; — 

Thou  child  of  joy, 

Shout   round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  shepherd  boy  ! 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; — 
386 


My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 
Oh  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  the  earth  itself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  children  are  pulling, 

On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers,  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm : — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 
But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  : 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 

The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  cometh  from  afar  : 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
387 


From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own  ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six-years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 
See  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
388 


See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song : 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "  humorous  stage 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  prophet !  seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
389 


Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  : 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortalitv 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight. 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

O  joy !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With     new-fledged    hope    still    fluttering    in    his 
breast  : 

Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
39° 


But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised  ; 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

391 


Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the    radiance    which    was  once  so 
bright 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower  ; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be, 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering, 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 
Think  not  of  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might : 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret 
392 


Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they  ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

WORDSWORTH. 

Labour  and  Love    ^>         o         o         *£>         •&• 

LABOUR  and  love !  there  are  no  other  laws 
To  rule  the  liberal  action  of  that  soul 
Which  faith  hath  set  beneath  thy  brief  control, 
Or  lull  the  empty  fear  that  racks  and  gnaws  ; 

Labour !  then  like  a  rising  moon,  the  cause 

Of  life  shall  light  thine  hour  from  pole  to  pole, 
Thou  shalt  taste  health  of  purpose,  and  the  roll 

Of  simple  joys  unwind  without  a  pause. 

Love  !  and  thy  heart  shall  cease  to  question  why 
Its  beating  pulse  was  set  to  rock  and  rave  ; 
Find  but  another  heart  this  side  the  grave 
393 


To  soothe  and  cling  to, — thou  hast  life's  reply. 
Labour  and  love!   then  fade  without  a  sigh, 
Submerged  beneath  the  inexorable  wave. 

EnMrxn  GOSSE. 


"  An  Angel  of  the  Night "  o         <z»         <^> 

I    DREAMED  there  would  be  Spring  no  more, 
That  Nature's  ancient  power  was  lost ; 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke  and  frost, 
They  chattered  trifles  at  the  door : 

I  wandered  from  the  noisy  town, 

I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs  : 
I  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows. 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown  : 

I  met  with  scoffs,  I  met  with  scorns 

From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary  hairs  : 
They  called  me  in  the  public-  squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns  : 

They  called  me  fool,  they  called  me  child : 

I  found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 

The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was  bright  ; 
He  looked  upon  my  crown  and  smiled: 
394 


He  reached  the  glory  of  a  hand, 

That  seemed  to  touch  it  into  leaf: 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief, 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 

TENNYSON. 


The  Eternal  Spring  •&••£><?••£> 

PASSING    away,    saith    the    World,    passing 
away  : 

Chances,  beauty,  and  youth  sapped  day  by  day: 
Thy  life  never  continueth  in  one  stay. 
Is  the  eye  waxen  dim,  is  4;he  dark  hair  changing 

to  grey 

That  hath  won  neither  laurel  nor  bay  ? 
I    shall    clothe    myself    in    Spring    and    bud    in 

May ; 

Thou,  root-stricken,  shalt  not  rebuild  thy  decay 
On  my  bosom  for  aye. 
Then  I  answered:  Yea. 

Passing  away,  saith  my  Soul,  passing  away  : 
With  its  burden  of  fear  and  hope,  of  labour  and 

play; 

Hearken  what  the  past  doth  witness  and  say  : 
Rust  in  thy  gold,  a  moth  is  in  thine  array, 

395 


A  canker  is  in  thy  bud,  thy  leaf  must  decay. 

At  midnight,  at  cockcrow,  at  morning,  one  certain 

day 
Lo,    the    Bridegroom    shall    come   and   shall    not 

delay  : 

Watch  thou  and  pray. 
Then  I  answered  :  Yea. 

Passing  away,  saith  my  God,  passing  away  : 

Winter  passeth  after  the  long  delay  : 

New  grapes  on  the  vine,  new  figs  on  the  tender 

spray. 

Turtle  calleth  turtle  in  Heaven's  May. 
Though  I  tarry  wait  for.  Me,  trust  Me,  watch  and 

pray. 

Arise,  come  away,  night  is  past  and  lo  it  is  day, 
My  love,  My  sister,  My  spouse,  thou  shalt  hear 

Me  say. 
Then  I  answered  :  Yea. 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 

New  Year's  Chimes  ^>         o         <>         o 

W\  I  AT  is  the  song  the  stars  sing? 
(Arid  a  million  songs  arc  as  snug  of  otic.} 
This  is  the  song  the  stars  sing : 
Sweeter  song's  none. 

396 


One  to  set,  and  many  to  sing, 

{And  a  million  songs  are  as  song  of  one), 
One  to  stand,  and  many  to  cling, 
The  many  things,  and  the  one  Thing, 

The  one  that  runs  not,  the  many  that  run. 

The  ever  new  weaveth  the  ever  old 
{And  a  million  songs  are  as  song  of  one}. 

Ever  telling  the  never  told  ; 

The  silver  saith,  and  the  said  is  gold, 
And  done  ever  the  never  done. 

The  chase  that's  chased  is  the  Lord  o'  the  chase 
{And  a  million  songs  are  as  song  of  one), 

And  the  pursued  cries  on  the  race  ; 

And  the  hounds  in  leash  are  the  hounds  that 


Hidden  stars  by  the  shown  stars'  sheen; 

{And  a  million  suns  are  but  as  one)  ; 
Colours  unseen  by  the  colours  seen, 
And  sounds  unheard  heard  sounds  between, 

And  a  night  is  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 

An  ambuscade  of  light  in  night, 

{And  a  million  secrets  are  but  as  one). 

And  a  night  is  dark  in  the  sun's  light, 

And  a  world  in  the  world  man  looks  upon. 
397 


Hidden  stars  by  the  shown  stare'  wings, 

(And  a  million  ci/clcs  arc  hut  <ts  one), 
And  a  world  with  unapparent  strings 
Knits  the  simulant  world  of  things  : 
Behold,  and  vision  thereof  is  none. 

The  world  above  in  the  world  below 

(And  <i  million  worlds  are  but  ax  one), 
And  the  One  in  all ;  as  the  sun's  strength  so 
Strives  in  all  strength,  glows  in  all  glow 

( )f  the  earth  that  wits  not,  and  man  thereon. 


Braced  in  its  own  fourfold  embrace 

(And  a  million  strengths  arc  ax  strength  oj  one}, 

And  round  it  all  God's  arms  of  grace, 

The  world,  so  as  the  Vision  says, 

Doth  with  great  lightning-tramples  run. 

And  thunder  bruiteth  into  thunder, 

(And  a  million  sounds  are  as  sound  of  one), 
From  stellate  peak  to  peak  is  tossed  a  voice  of 

wonder, 

And  the  height  stoops  down  to  the  depths  there- 
under, 

And  sun  leans  forth  to  his  brother-sun. 
398 


And  the  more  ample  years  unfold 
(With  a  million  songs  as  song  of  one). 

A  little  new  of  the  ever  old, 

A  little  told  of  the  never  told, 
Added  act  of  the  never  done. 

Loud  the  descant,  and  low  the  theme, 

(A  million  songs  are  as  song  of  one)  ; 
And  the  dream  of  the  world  is  dream  in  dream, 
But  the  one  Is  is,  or  nought  could  seem ; 

And  the  song  runs  round  to  the  song  begun. 

This  is  the  song  the  stars  sing 

(Toned  all  in  time]  ; 
Tintinnabulous,  tuned  to  ring 
A  multitudinous-single  thing, 

Rung  all  in  rhyme. 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 


399 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES 


A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever        .         ;         .         -151 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race         ....  320 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant          ....  72 

And  thou  my  Word,  begotten  Son,  by  thee          .         .  4 
Arise,  you  little  glancing  wings,  and  sing  your  infant 

joy 19 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows  ....  59 


B 

Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low         ....  324 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead    .....  97 

Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy        .         .  210 

Break,  break,  break   .          .         .          .          .          .  315 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more       ....  76 


Cast  wide  the  folding  doorways  of  the  East          .         .  35 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love    .         .    _^__  .  62 

Come  to  me  in  the  silence  of  the  night         ...  322 
2  C                             401 


D 

PAGE 

Day  !.....  ...     226 

Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave  .  .156 
Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  .  .  .  344 
Doubt  you  to  whom  my  Muse  these  notes  intendeth  .  57 


F 

Fear  death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat    .         .         .  375 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun         ....  346 

Five  years  have  past  ;  five  summers,  with  the  length   .  203 

Flee  fro  the  prees,  and  dwelle  with  sothfastnesse          .  127 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony      ...  8 


Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn  .  .  25 
Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song  .  .142 
Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the  hill  .  .  349 

Go,  lovely  Rose .       56 

Go  not,  happy  day      .......       60 


II 

Hail,  holy  Light !  offspring  of  heav'n  first-born    .         .  10 

Hail  thou  most  sacred  venerable  thing  !       ...  3 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit  ! 20 

He  came  all  so  still 224 

Home,  home  from  the  horizon  far  and  clear         .         .  374 
How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught        .         .         .         .128 

I 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers       .         .  29 

I  dreamed  there  would  be  Spring  no  more  .         .         .  394 

I  fled  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days  .         .  336 

402 


I  had  not  seen  my  son's  dear  face  ....  323 
I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend  .  .  63 
I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night  .  .  .  .  .371 
I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung  .  .  .  103 
I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud  .  .  .  .  .152 
I  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead  !  .  .  ,  .161 
If,  in  the  silent  mind  of  One  all-pure  ....  136 
Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell  ...  69 
It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  .  .  .  226 
It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king  .....  131 


Labour  and  love  !  there  are  no  other  laws  . 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds    . 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ?..... 

Live  in  these  conquering  leaves  :  live  all  the  same 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net        ..... 

M 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill  .  .  .  .  .130 
Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave  ...  67 
My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold  .  .  .  .25 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his  .  .102 

N 
No  coward  soul  is  mine       ......     376 

O 

Oh  !  pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy  !       .         .  134 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ?  .  .  .66 
O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose  ....  96 
O  nothing,  in  this  corporal  earth  of  man  .  .  .  202 
O  that  'twere  possible  ......  87 

403 


O  true  and  tried,  so  well  and  long       .         .         .         -117 

O  Wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being    .  381 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town      ....  309 

On  Man,  on  Nature,  and  on  Human  Life   .         .         .  137 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 93 

P 

Pzestum  !  thy  roses  long  ago 95 

Palace-roof  of  cloudless  nights 369 

Passing  away,  saith  the  World,  passing  away       .         .  395 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild      .....  223 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe      ....  375 

R 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away  .         .         .         .361 


Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth  .         .         .         .141 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ?    .         .         .76 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight       ....       75 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight     .         .         .         .         -73 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part  .         .100 
So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled      .         .         .189 
So  was  he  lifted  gently  from  the  ground       .         .         .     200 
Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God   .         .         .         .146 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses    ......     345 

Surprised  by  joy,  impatient  as  the  wind  .  .  .318 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  Morn,  her  rising  sweet  .  .  53 
Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave  ....  70 


Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean      .         .     319 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind        ....       94 

404 


PAGE 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day  .  .  .  362 
The  lark  sitting  upon  his  earthy  bed,  just  as  the  morn .  13 
The  moon  shines  bright :  in  such  a  night  as  this  .  .  67 
The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose  ....  32 
The  sun  descending  in  the  West  ....  372 
The  world's  great  age  begins  anew  33 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon  .  .130 
There  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women  .  .  .107 
There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours  .  .  347 
There  was  a  boy  ;  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs  .  .313 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream  .  385 
They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light  .  .  .  334 

Thou  art  the  Way       . 143 

Thou   perceivest  the  flowers   put  forth  their  precious 

odours         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .14 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness       .         .  153 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower      .         .         •     3I5 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air     .....     343 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright          .         .         .         .         .         6 

To  see  a  world  in  a  grain  of  sand         ....     152 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! .         .         .158 

\V 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will .  .  .  .  .144 
What  is  the  song  the  stars  sing  ? .  .  .  .  .  396 
"  What!  you  are  stepping  west-ward?  " — "  Yea"  .  333 
When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls  ....  321 
When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought  .  .  317 
Who  knows  what  days  I  answer  for  to-day?  .  -145 
Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I 

build 211 

V 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o:  bonnie  Doon    ....     320 
You'll  love  me  yet  ! — and  I  can  tarry ....       96 
2  D  405 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS 


Anon.,  224. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  136,  144, 
345.  348. 


Herrick,  25. 
Keats,  151,  153. 


Blake,   6,    13,    14,   19,   152,        Landor,  95,  320. 

223,  225,  372.  Longfellow,  309. 

Bronte,  Emily,  376.  Lovelace,  94. 

Browning,  E.  B.,  103. 
Browning,  Robert,  76, 96, 97,        Marlowe,  62. 

107,  156,  211,  226,  375. 
Bryant,  347. 


Burns,  96,  320. 

Carew,  59. 
Chaucer,  127. 
Clough,  A.  H.,  141. 
Crashaw,  92. 

D  rayton, 
Dryden,  8. 

Gosse,  Edmund,  393. 
Gray,  362. 


Meynell,  Alice,  75,  143,  145, 

323,  374- 
Milton,  4,  10,  53,  210. 


Xorris,  J.,  of  Bemerton,  4. 

Rogers,  Samuel,  130. 
Rossetti,  Christina,  322,  344, 
36i,  395- 

Shakespeare,     66,    67,    76, 

101,  317,  346. 
Shelley,  20,  29,  33,  70,  93, 

159,  369,  381- 


406 


Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  57,  102.        Vaughan,  Herbert,  334,  371. 


Tennyson,  32,  60.  63,  67,  69, 
72,  87,  101,  117,  131,  142, 
189,  315,  319,  321,  324, 
343,  394- 

Thompson,  Francis,  35,  202, 

336,  396. 


Waller,  56. 

Whitman,  Walt,  375. 

Wordsworth,  25, 73, 130, 1 34, 
137,146,152,158,200.203, 
226,313,315,318,333,385. 

Wotton,  128. 


407 


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